


The Starling in his Aerie

by Sevynlira



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Animal Transformation, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Eventual Happy Ending, Face-Fucking, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Hair-pulling, Husbands, M/M, Masturbation, No Beta-we die like man shaped beings, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Pining, Porn, Supernatural Elements, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26245228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevynlira/pseuds/Sevynlira
Summary: Happily ever after doesn't always feel like a fairy tale. Loss, grief and trauma can transform us into monsters better described in the really dark stories. In this fantasy AU, we find our angel and his demon struggling to live their story
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 69





	1. Pretty Bird

**Author's Note:**

> The E rating on this fic will not come up until later in this fic.

_Hello there friend. Would you like to hear a story? I have one for you. It has been a troubling time, I know. The comfort of our illusions and our daily life has all sort of wrinkled up into this messy confusing wreck. I’m sorry for that. I do have a solution though, I have this story. I know. A story isn’t really going to pay your bills or make the rent go away. Maybe it will lighten your heart? Maybe the comfort of something familiar and good and right will ease your mind. So. I have exactly the story you might need right now. Yes, it is that kind of story. One of those tales that breathe the familiar dusty path of legend and mythos and rhyme and bedtime. That is ok though isn’t it? I don’t imagine myself as the great Shakespeare creating words and crafting legends. Instead maybe I am the visiting bard that sits on your couch with my vape pen and coffee. Maybe I will tell you something you already have heard before. Something true and real. Something about love and chosen family. My story is about knitting your heart and wings into the warp and weft of a community and finding them there to catch you. Shall I begin? Go on and make yourself that tea or coffee. Find that blanket or comfy spot in your bed. Let’s take a deep breath. And begin..._

Once upon a time, in a land far far away. _Oh don’t look at me like that. I know. Settle yourself. I told you it was that kind of story_. Once upon a time, in a land far away. There was a kingdom. This kingdom had a king. As those are wont to do. And this king had a son named Aziraphale. A very disappointing sort of son. You see, he wasn’t at all like one would imagine a prince. For one, he didn’t go around swinging a sword around. I mean, he was given a sword. Practically at birth! But as soon as he could, he had given it away. He didn’t wear suits of armor. I don’t really blame him there. Suits of armor do seem kind of sweaty and difficult to move around in. He didn’t talk about politics or show up to important royal meetings. He didn’t woo princesses or hunt the forest for game. Much to the king’s consternation. He loved books. He loved tea. He loved the quiet. He loved his tower. Some fathers, when faced with a son who isn’t at all like them, will immediately crack down and demand and shout and force their poor son to be a little copy of themselves. Thankfully, this king had another son. One just like him. A boy that rode a fine steed and swung his sword around and threw roses at the ladies. This comforted the king. It allowed him to simply ignore the soft book loving prince. Which suited everyone just fine. Until one day.

One day the sword wielding prince decided to fight a dragon. As sword wielding princes are wont to do. For the record, this dragon had done exactly nothing to warrant some swaggery prince coming along and poking him with a sword. That doesn’t really matter to those types of princes. There is a reputation to protect and ladies to impress. So this prince was immediately gobbled down by the irritated dragon. An act that would change many many lives. For one, the dragon had terrible indigestion for days. Armor is a bitch to digest. For another, the beautiful soft prince in his tower was suddenly going to have a demanding father on his ass. _Yes. I know I said ass. I am telling a rather trite fairy tale but I am going to fucking swear. And probably tell you all the dirty parts too._

While the dragon was unhappily belching fire and trying to find some way to get comfy on his hoard of gold, Aziraphale was blissfully unaware of all this drama. In fact, Aziraphale was often blissfully unaware of things. He liked it that way. His tea was rapidly cooling and the sun was setting and he was reading the most wonderful story! It was probably better than the one I am telling you, but Aziraphale always felt that the book he was reading right that moment was the best one. People who love stories are like that. By the time he lifted his head, the fireplace had almost totally gone dark and his tea was a lost cause. A shiver curled over his skin and he rubbed his stiff fingers to warm them.

“Oh dear” he thought. “Where does the time go?” Reluctantly, he set his book aside and stood to stretch his back and light a lamp. By habit, he makes his way over to the window to check for his friend. Hmm. The crumbs are still there on the window sill. His starling friend had not visited in all the long hours of the afternoon. Aziraphale wonders where the clever little thing has been all day. They are quite companionable friends. At least, Aziraphale thinks so.

Some months ago, there was a massive rainstorm. The type of storm that makes one start to think of great giants slamming hammers into the earth. It had been so frightful that the prince had gone to pin the tapestry firmly down over his tower window. Surprisingly, there was the most bedraggled and sad looking bird on the ledge. The poor thing looked absolutely miserable! His wet feathers were soaked and if a shiny black starling could frown, this one would have been. Aziraphale immediately lifted the tapestry completely out of the way and went for the crumbs of cake he had left from lunch. Trying his best to not move in any threatening way, he scattered the crumbs along the ledge and into his cozy room. The starling had tipped his head this way and that and seemed to almost immediately understand the invitation. It still took some minutes of Aziraphale trying his best to look welcoming and nonthreatening for the dripping bird to inch into the warm room, but once he did, the prince could almost feel the relief rolling off the pretty passerine. And thus, a friendship was born. The skittish bird would visit almost daily, sometimes bringing shiny gifts of ribbon or bits of metal. It was exactly the kind of friend that Aziraphale adored. He was frightfully clever and listened to Aziraphale tell him all about the stories he liked best. He could tell the starling anything really. Without all the bewildered and frustrated looks that he got from all the humans he tried to befriend. Members of the court, who are seeking favor from kings and such, vacantly nod and pretend to like Aziraphale, but you can always sort of tell. With the starling, well, it is very plain the bird chose to be there. He flew in to visit regularly and would mimic some of the words the prince would say.

“Pretty bird.” the starling would repeat. “Pretty.” he would insist and poke his beak down to touch Aziraphale’s collar. “Pretty bird”. And the prince would feel something warm and good in his chest and he would beam at the starling and say “yes! Pretty bird. You certainly are, my dear.”

So it is with some disappointment that Aziraphale sweeps the crumbs away and takes up the lamp. It is past time for the evening repast and he has missed it because everyone has forgotten he exists. He will simply have to make his way to the kitchens and beg favor and food from the staff. It is not anything new, and he doesn’t mind very much. He will be happily left at peace to enjoy his meal and not have to perform some tedious princely manner for the public. Little does he know, this might be one of the last chances to be so at peace.


	2. Trying Something New

The next time the starling visits the tower, it is to find the prince completely distraught. There aren't even any crumbs at all on the ledge! Surprised by this new development and worried about his royal friend, the starling hops onto a table and tips his head as if to telegraph his eagerness to hear the tale. It takes a bit of time for Aziraphale to calm himself, wiping his wet blue eyes clear of tears and settling down only to start pacing the room again. 

“My father.” he sniffs. “My father wishes me to wed. He...he…” a hiccuping breath interrupts his tale and he has to calm again before he can continue telling the bird his troubles. “He says I am soft. And there isn’t any hope of doing anything about it now. But if I perhaps marry a strong monarch then I can secure the kingdom for the future.” He twists his hands in distress and a few more fat tears well in his eyes. “I...I am soft. I am nothing like them. I can’t be! I don’t even know how to start. And...and...if a husband is found to tolerate me. I will have to go far away and leave all my books and things. And I won’t see you anymore.” This last part is practically wailed in distress and the starling flutters his wings as if he can feel the waves of anguish pouring off of his friend. Now, unfortunately, a bird can only offer so much comfort and birds generally aren’t much for hugs. But the starling does edge closer and tap his beak against the prince’s knee. “Pretty bird.” he says sadly. “Bird. Pretty bird” he repeats as if he can insist the words mean “I am so sorry. This sucks and I would hug you if I could. I would tell you it was going to be ok. But I am just a starling and I am here.” 

Aziraphale seems to understand the message anyway and he calms enough to share some of his uneaten lunch with the starling and to even smile a little bit when the bird does a funny little bop of his head. By the time his friend flies away, the prince is comforted at least a little.

The starling on the other hand, is fucking furious. You see, there is something pretty special about this bird. He isn’t a bird. Well, he is. But not entirely. He technically is what the humans would call a sorcerer. Other humans might call him a shapeshifter. The truth is, he is a species that changes between a few forms and has been hunted almost to extinction by humans. It’s something that he isn’t really that eager to advertise for that very reason. So, he hasn’t exactly revealed that secret to his friend. 

He had been stretching his wings and gadding about as a starling one afternoon and managed to run smack into a storm. His introduction to the book loving prince was rather amazing and kind. He could feel something so good and right about the prince. So he kept visiting. He always intended to reveal himself to the prince. He had come up with about a dozen different ways to go about this. But time had dragged on and Aziraphale was comfortable telling him things. Things he certainly wouldn’t go around telling sorcerers. The starling loved spending time with him so much and hated it when interacting with humans ended with shouting and weapons and fainting. So he just. Let himself be the starling. 

Now, however, his friend was in trouble. That wasn’t good. He was going to have to do something about it. But what?

By the time the starling reached his aerie he had it. The prince needed a husband. A wealthy swaggery husband. One who could take him away and give him his own tower and all the books he wants. Ugh. He was going to have to be a human. Gross. They have so many sticky parts and generally are soft and defenseless. This was gonna suck. He remembers the panic in those bright eyes and sighs. He better start practicing. 

The sorcerer does practice and manages to manifest a humanish shape that is rather lanky and full of angles. He has a bit of beak to his not quite straight nose and some other scattered bits of inhumanity in his flame bright hair and snake slit eyes. But it is rather impressive how close he does manage it. The eyes are the most stubborn bit and he is forced to shield them behind a glamour. Humans are generally used to assuming that what they see is what is real anyway. It shouldn’t be a problem. 

It is a real fucking problem. He almost slips his grip on the glamour and punches the king right in the fucking face on the very first day. So infuriating! Why are they like this? Every other mention of that bright good gentleman is something demeaning and petty. What had Aziraphale ever done to these people? Other than stay in his tower library and mind his own business and feed his bird friend and basically be a fucking angel. Yes. An angel. That is exactly it. These fucking humans have an angel living right among them and they can’t manage to get over their own ego and pretense to see him! What bright joy he brings to the world! What gentle warmth and precious gifts he gives freely to anyone who would approach with an open hand. Thankfully contempt is easily confused for nobility among these swine. So his open sneer and grimace of pure disgust is easily interpreted to mean he is a man of privilege and esteem and is to be catered to and bowed at. His reluctance to join them in gossip and court intrigue is seen as snobbery and the ascent to some heights of social exclusivity. And his looks. Well he might have gone a little bit overboard with the looks. He hadn’t meant to somehow make this angled collection of wiry bones and swaying hips a seduction to anyone. Least of all the simpering witless courtesans that kept finding their way into his path and fluttering their lashes. It's really confounding. And worse yet, the object of his entire mission is avoiding him like the plague. He misses his friend so much.

He should feel guilty. Really he should. But he has dealt with humans for weeks now and the worst sort of humans are obviously royalty. He just needs a freaking break from it all. So he finally caves and sneaks out of the court. Oh the delight of happily shaking out his form into the starling and stretching his wings! He screams a happy relieved cry as he mounts the sky and heads for the tower. It’s just so hard to feel guilty and also feel so happy. So happy when Aziraphale’s familiar eyes shine with pure joy at just seeing his winged friend. His angel looks so relieved and not at all like the wretched unhappy soul that had sat stiffly at the dining table when their marriage was announced. He was going to tell him. He was. But the familiar warm patter of Aziraphale spilling out his woes to the bright eyed bird begins before he can manage the courage to shift. All of the unhappy struggle of being engaged to some dead eyed sneering wastral who charms the court and swaggers around like he owns the place is laid out in every detail. It’s all rather humiliating to hear the prince cringe so fiercely from their union. What a terrible job he had done. He really sucks at being a human. Who would be interested in such a cold snake of a man? And what sort of name is Crowley? The poor starling is subjected to every manner of discouraging and dispiriting news that his feathers feel downright heavy as he finally makes his way back to his quarters to lick his wounds. He certainly couldn’t tell the prince now. Maybe all of this was a huge mistake.


	3. A New Arrangement

Aziraphale knew it couldn’t last for too long. He had put it off as much as possible, but he couldn’t avoid his future husband forever. People were starting to notice. The king was starting to notice. It had been two days, two days that his fiancee has been missing from the court. Inquiries had been made of the staff and apparently the flame haired suitor had confined himself to his quarters and was claiming to be tired. Sleeping. Two days of sleeping is obviously not at all true and the king was quite sure it was Aziraphale’s fault. Of course. He had obviously offended his wealthy patron by his rude behavior. Some royal demands had been made royally clear and Aziraphale was sent directly to his fiancee’s room. To do whatever he had to do. Amends had to be made. He was terrified. Crowley could do anything he wanted. Insist on anything he wanted. The prince was completely helpless to royal whim and no matter how his heart fluttered and his hands shook, he had to apologize. He had some ingratiate himself to the imperious beautiful suitor. He just wanted to run back to his tower. 

The lanky man that the servant procures from the depths of his sleeping quarters is absolutely surprising. It isn’t the fine clothed clever beauty that Aziraphale had met before. This man is softly sauntering across the floor with unearthly grace and bare feet. And he is wearing pajamas. His hair is sticking up in random places. And most shocking. His eyes. What on earth? His eyes are a startling slitted gold. Snake eyes. Heavy lidded and half asleep. No mistake, he is still beautiful. The pale prettiness of his skin is enough to know this is the same man. He arranges himself in a chair as if his bones are made of water and makes some noise that can’t exactly be language. He does look like someone who might have been sleeping for two days. Aziraphale is so taken aback that he only gapes at his fiancee.

“What is it you need, angel?” Crowley asks after a moment of visibly trying to shake himself awake. 

“Angel?” Aziraphale parrots back, trying somehow to make sense of what is happening.

His fiancee stiffens and makes another indescribable noise somewhere between “hrk” and “nyehhh” before correcting himself stiffly. “Your highness” he mutters while a dull red blush crawls up his exposed throat. 

“You just called me angel.” the prince insists while watching Crowley practically squirm with embarrassment. Those inhuman eyes flip up to meet his for only one obviously guilty glance before darting away while the man fishes for some explanation.

“I uh. Heard. From servants and such. You know. Uh. That you are quite…” He gestures with one hand as if to finish the thought without actually saying more.

Aziraphale is too fascinated to rescue him from this awkward discussion and only stares while his fiancee continues floundering. “Well.” Crowley winces at his own awkwardness. “Angelic.”

“The servants told you I am angelic.” Aziraphale says with obvious disbelief. He isn’t buying it for a second. If that were the case, why is his fiancee practically vibrating with guilt right now? He squints in confusion at Crowley for a long awkward moment before he drops yet another verbal fireball into the conversation. “Your eyes,” he says.

Crowley almost falls off the chair as he realizes his mistake. The glamour! While he is attempting to be casual again, his eyes flick to the dull brackish brown as his magic falls into place. “The light?” he offers as the lamest excuse for an answer in the history of the world.

Aziraphale has had quite enough of this nonsense and he stands to confront his intended. “Crowley, what in heaven’s name is going on? I saw them. Your eyes! Don’t lie to me!” His frustration and the emotional blow back from that initial nervousness has him shaking with anger and fear. It is a bit of an overreaction but the entire situation isn’t one he was prepared for. 

Crowley can sense when it is all becoming too much. He never meant for this to get out of hand. He stands and reaches out toward the prince. “Angel.” he winces and corrects. “Aziraphale. Your highness. Please. I can explain. I never meant.” He flounders. “I don’t want to--” Why is human language so difficult? He has never been able to fit human words appropriately around his feelings. Having the handy tools of magic and telepathy between his own kind has always been a better shortcut. But he has to try. He has to try and not scare his friend to death. No screaming or stabbing or fainting. It’s the most terrifying moment he has ever had in his long long life. He takes a fortifying breath and longs with all his being for this one moment of perfect communication. 

“Aziraphale. I only want to help. I want to get you out of here. Away from these people.” He steps closer, his entire being trying to radiate reassurance. “I know. I know you fucking hate it here. They don’t understand you. They don’t care for you. I know your father expects you to make a match and secure a fortune and do your part. I know you hate it. I hate it for you.” Crowley has his hands fisted at his sides and his wide revealed eyes are attempting somehow to say everything. “I have it. The money. I have everything you need to get away from here. I swear it. That is not a lie.” Silence stretches between them as he waits for the prince to think.

“How?” overwhelmed royal asks. “You said you know I want to escape? How do you know that?” 

Clever angel. Of course he is. He isn’t going to just take the free escape without poking and turning it over and figuring it all out. If Crowley weren’t so sure that he is about to lose his best friend, he would admire the way he puzzles over this conversation. He also knows he doesn’t dare lie now.

“Ehm.” Crowley cringes in discomfort and rubs his palm over his face. “My eyes.” He gestures at his face. “You can see.” he pauses and wrestles with the words again. “Well. I’m not.” He grimaces and tentatively glances toward the exit just in case he needs to beat a hasty retreat. “I’m not human.” There it is. 

He risks a glance at his fiancee.

Aziraphale is totally nonplussed. His pale brows are drawn into a confused sort of squint. He comes to some sort of realization and his eyes widen for a moment. “So. You can read my mind.” He states with a flat sort of intonation that denotes an incoming panic.

“OH no!” Crowley scoffs. “Oh. Fuck. This would go so much better if I could!” he opines for a second before realising how that sounds. “No! I can’t read your mind, angel.” He covers before sheepishly admitting, “I have met you before.”

Aziraphale waits. And waits. When it is obvious that no further explanation is coming forward he crosses his arms. “I would remember you. No way could I forget meeting you.” 

Crowley doesn’t allow himself to consider whatever that means. He is at a delicate intersection with this conversation and it isn’t going to get any easier before it's over. “Well. I didn’t look. Exactly.” He looks to Aziraphale for help but only finds a terrifying inspection coming from that direction and no help at all. “Like this.” he finishes. It was such a tough admission that he takes a little breather to try to recover.

Still unhelpful, the prince only arches a brow. “You were in disguise then?”

“A disgu--?” Crowley considers “Well I don’t know if that is the disguise or this is. Disguise isn’t really a concept for us. I am totally myself in all of the forms.” This entire direction of thought has thrown a wrench into his explanation and he verbally wanders around until Aziraphale stops him.

“Who is us? What are you?” His curiosity is completely engaged and it hasn’t even occurred to him that he should be running away or screaming. 

“Oh.” Crowley refocuses. “I think humans call it shape-shifting. Or Sorcery. I change forms.” 

Aziraphale nods and considers this for a moment. “So I met you before. And you didn’t look like this. Show me.” 

The shape shifter searches the prince’s eyes for a moment. This might be the last time he is allowed to look at his friend. It might be too much. It is an impossible thing he is demanding from this man. He can feel sorrow already welling in his chest. Human bodies betray everything and so his eyes sting with the threat of tears. But he cannot lie. He must reveal himself.   
Reluctantly, he shivers and grabs his magic. Wrapping himself in the bright weave of reality, he shifts until all of himself has changed into that clever shining starling. He is grateful that the overwhelming crushing pain of sorrow lightens some. The starling cannot cry in the same way and so his chest doesn’t feel like it's being stomped on. 

Sure enough. His angel is wide eyed with panic. With betrayal. It is too much to bear. With a high distressed cry, Aziraphale runs from the room. The door bangs in its frame and the finality of the sound strikes the bird to the floor in a spasm of misery. He is incapable of moving for a long while. He should have expected this. Something about the starling insists though. It insists that he fly after his friend. He must make sure he is safe. He wants to try again. He knows instinctively exactly where to go. Plunging directly into the sky, the starling wings into the tower with only one chanting thought on his mind. “Please. Please. I’m sorry. “

It is the first words that spill from his mouth as he tumbles into the tower room where Aziraphale hides his body in the corner. He has shifted so fast that he is dizzy with the effort and the striking flame of his eyes are blown wide with panic. “Aziraphale. You are my best friend. I only want to take you away from anything that makes you sad. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was going to tell you. I was afraid you would be scared of me. Humans keep trying to kill me. I just. I wanted to help. You told me that you were miserable and trapped. I should have told you ages ago. I just liked spending time with you. Pretty bird. I liked being.” He flounders to a stop as human words fail him again. He is only left miserably staring at the bent crown of the prince’s head. Falling into silence, he can only sink to the floor in front of his friend and wait. Mirroring his fiancee’s pose, he draws his knees up below his chin and crosses his arms to hold them tight. Instead of burying his face though, he trains his eyes on Aziraphale and gives him all the time he needs.

It takes more than an hour. An hour before the smallest words finally come from the smothering cradle of Aziraphale’s huddle. “What do you want from me?” He asks in the most terrifyingly vulnerable of shaking whispers.

“Angel. I don’t want anything. I just want to see you happy again. Like it was before. I want you to have your books and your tower and your tea.” 

“You would be my husband.” Aziraphale says and Crowley has to stomp firmly on any sort of rising hope that flutters in his chest at this forecasting statement. He reminds himself forcefully that it doesn’t mean the prince has decided a damn thing and all he is doing is mentally stepping through the situation. That is all. 

“What do you want from me?” he asks a second time. 

Crowley squints in confusion.

“What do you want from me? You would be my husband.” Aziraphale repeats.  
It suddenly dawns on Crowley all the implications of a human sort of arrangement of things. Married partners aren’t just sitting around being a bird and human and enjoying cake together, after all. Such an arrangement would imply something altogether different. For humans.

“Aziraphale. I am not human.” he reminds gently. “I don’t.” he stops to wrangle the language. “I won’t need anything other than just the same as always. I only pictured flying into your tower and having some time sharing the day with you. I haven’t. Expected. Or. Wanted.” He allows the conversation to fall there. He is already fucking past the point where any shapeshifter could be expected to communicate with a human in the first place and he is wishing fervently that he could just pour his intentions directly into that mind. But he is reasonably sure it would melt something important in there and he doesn’t want to damage his friend. He is forced to just wait.

This reassurance seems to relax something in Aziraphale and he finally lifts his tear stained face to rest his own chin on his knees. 

“Why?” he asks in a hoarse voice.

Crowley shrugs. A human mannerism that was one of the first ones he had acquired. “I would miss my friend. I didn’t want you to go away.” He fidgets and distracts himself with picking a thread at his knee. “My gold wasn’t doing anything. Just sitting there. I thought. Hey, why not?” 

“You really have a lot of gold?” Aziraphale asks and sounds so much like his old self that Crowley can’t help the soft smile that threatens the edges of his mouth. “Yeah. Loads. Mountains.” He shyly dares to glance up at his angel’s face and those bright eyes are shining in a shared smile. Immediately he feels his heart do some weird flutter of joy. The old familiar warmth of being right here in this room comforts them both. 

“I think I probably have way more than your arsehole father.” Crowley wryly comments. It scores a shocked little huff of laughter from the prince and he hides his open mouth behind his hand. It’s so cute that the starling knows he isn’t going to forget this moment for the rest of his life.

“So, will you let me help?” he asks. “Do we have an arrangement?”

Aziraphale nods and offers his hand to shake on the agreement. “We have an arrangement.”


	4. Wedding Bells

The wedding plans move along rather expediently from this point. Some assumptions are made about their afternoon together. It’s easy to understand the confusion. From that day forward, hardly a moment goes by without those two being side by side. Aziraphale is radiant with joy and his handsome assumed lover is hovering near always and quite prepared to growl out a stern warning to anyone who dares to say a single negative thing about his fiancee. Kings are really not used to being verbally reprimanded but there is a sudden sharp dangerous glint to his son’s intended and even royalty doesn’t dare cross it.

Aziraphale wonders how on earth anyone has ever believed his fiancee is human. He treats things like gravity and chairs like they are suggestions. The otherworldly tug of his beauty lights attention from every corner and the attractive twist of his smirk has raised Aziraphale from absolute obscurity to the very heights of kingdom gossip.

It is absolutely clear to everyone that the foreign suitor fucks. And is well and truly satisfied. By Aziraphale. The speculation about his abilities in bed and his new moniker of “angel” has gifted the rather more seedy corners of the kingdom to some fantastical feathered porn. Aziraphale does rather look fine with great wide white wings and all that pale pretty skin exposed and rampant. Crowley rains on their parade by completely destroying their printing paraphernalia but not before stealing two salacious prints and hiding them with a wave of magic into his hoard. If someone were to speculate as to why he did such a thing, the starling would probably fly right away to hide. But nobody is there to ask, and so he doesn’t have to question why on earth a shape shifting sorcerer needs some human porn.

The wedding is executed with all the dignity and hoopla that a royal wedding implies and a frankly disturbing amount of Crowley’s hoard is “gifted” to the kingdom in dowry. Everyone is quite content with how things have turned out, and more importantly, the excited husbands are boarding a great ship to take them far the fuck away from this kingdom. Aziraphale’s books have been packed, and re-packed, much to the amusement of a certain starling. And they are on their way. To a new happy life.

_And that would be the end of this happy tale, if I were the merciful type of bard. Unfortunately, I’m a bit of a dick. So I am going to tell you the rest of the tale._

It was a hard week of full sails before they made land in their new country. Aziraphale is quite exhausted and cranky and missing all his usual comforts and he is absolutely distressed by the worry about the possible state of his dear books in the hold. His starling is also feeling quite tetchy from being stuck in such smelly human accommodations and such SLOW transport. The books were simply too much cargo to magic to their destination without causing some serious questions from Aziraphale’s family. The starling chose a ship to give the best impression of travelling farthest away so that they may have some excuse from never seeing those awful people again. His hoard is only a single day’s flight by magic means. It is agonizing and there is absolutely nowhere for him to truly stretch his wings. The risk of being spotted is too great. He is stuck, pissing and sweating and being gross for the entire week. And so these two sniping travelers debark, only to immediately face the rest of the journey. The starling directs their exhausted party of laden carriages out to the middle of nowhere. They stop in front of a sloppy looking hovel. And he dismisses them all. Aziraphale is absolutely beside himself. A hoard of gold. Mountains of it. AND THIS! This is the desperate little shack he is brought to! And the carriages are absolutely stuffed with his books. How is he expected to unload them all! It is all too much. The poor distressed prince just sinks down onto the cobbled street and weeps.

His own miserable companion is finally shocked enough to realize that Aziraphale has no idea what the plan is at all. He had forgotten that human thing called communication and had simply gone and done things without telling his angel exactly what the next steps were. Now they are here and his beautiful friend is having a full on melt down right in front of him. This is his fault. So he does something he has never done before. He kneels beside Aziraphale and wraps his arms around the man. It’s all rather shocking actually. Enough of a shock that the prince stops crying for a minute. His sobs halt and presses his wet face against Crowley’s shoulder. It is enough of an opening that Crowley can do what he should have done in the first place.

“It’s going to be ok, angel.” He says, with a peculiar soft tone in his voice.

“How is this going to be ok?!” Aziraphale exclaims in sheer frustration, winding himself up for another good round of feeling sorry for himself.

The starling doesn’t release the hug but he does manage to explain that this entire journey had been a redirect to hide their true destination from all humans. That his aerie will be reached by magic and his husband won’t have to unpack a single thing on his own. The words are barely out of his mouth before Crowley is snapping his fingers and all of the world around them twists and suddenly they are transported directly to the starling’s aerie. The carriages arrive without fuss and the palatial grounds of his new home are enough to even make a prince gawp. There is a tower. Of course. He can tell it is all his own from the moment he sees it. Every inch of the warm cozy place is exactly as he would make it himself. His husband says that he does not read minds, but this just doesn’t seem possible without direct access to his own thoughts and dreams.

The agitated sorcerer fidgets and flutters at the prince’s side while the human finds his way around the front hall and the living spaces. His clear itchiness is so obvious that finally, Aziraphale laughs and shoves Crowley’s shoulder to push him outside. “GO. FLY. I know you are dying. GO! Silly bird. Stretch your wings. You have been stuck with me too long.” His husband is so clearly and obviously relieved to finally be released from human corporation that he screams a triumphant little shout while leaping straight into the darting form of the starling.

Aziraphale takes his time settling into their pretty little home. He does unpack the carriages slowly but surely on his own just so that he can put every single book in the space it belongs. There is no rush to do so, because as far as he can tell, they have no neighbors to speak of and no thieves to try to loot the valuable tomes. They settle into a happy routine. His starling flies to meet him sometimes and sometimes his beautiful husband brings provisions and treats from afar. He tucks them into his magical pocket he calls “the hoard”. Crowley can simply snap his fingers to magically produce food, but for some reason, the real human stuff that is simply stored in the hoard and brought back is always better. He is quite happy to describe his reactions to such things in great length while Crowley lounges in some approximation of sitting. The starling tips his head and listens in that birdlike way of his and Aziraphale grows happier every day.

With time, Crowley settles into a rough routine of living in a humanish corporation. This shockingly, has some unexpected side effects. For one, he begins to take special notice of his limbs and where they are. And where Aziraphale’s corresponding limbs are. Sometimes his body wants to somehow match or mimic the way his angel is standing or sitting. He wants to mirror the tap of his fingers or the way his spine sits so very properly in chairs. It's enormously distracting and the first few times he notices, he takes wing and keeps himself so deeply passerine that his pretty angel almost depletes the small store of food they have on hand. Sheepishly he concedes to the need for walking about on two legs sometimes if only for the sake of groceries. He could arrange something more convenient probably. If he thought about it. But there is something about the way his husband lights up and shines. He beams. He glitters with joy when he sees Crowley piling the table with the most recent of his culinary finds. He chatters for long hours about every detail he notices in the food. It is even better than gifting him with twisted metal or shiny rocks. These gifts are consumed. They become part of him. It is so satisfying and basely possessive to know that he has provided for his friend.

And they talk. They talk about everything. And Aziraphale introduces him to wine. Oh. Lovely spirits. It makes the magic inside of him zoom wildly and makes his entire corporation feel heavy and loose and warm. He likes it very much and so they begin a happy tradition of sometimes emptying a bottle or two. It is made even more amusing when he works out how to return the wine and sober them up with a twist of his power. The taste of that is pretty gross, but skipping the hangover bit is worth it.

And the starling resumes his welcome perch against the edge of his husband’s chair. He doesn’t have to explain it completely, he is pretty awful at that, of course. But somehow the prince figures out that the clever bird is completely Crowley and yet is completely this feathered thing. He doesn’t have conversations at all in this form. Only those few short phrases from before. “Pretty bird!” the starling will exclaim and Aziraphale will smile and reply back with the same cooing reply. Just like before. “Yes. My pretty bird. You certainly are, dear.” The starling will hop onto his shoulder and poke his beak against the soft pale hair of his angel and make happy sounds of contentment. And that was how it is for them. Aziraphale will tell his feathered companion all about his day and share his crumbs and read his books while the happy passerine hops and flaps about the book strewn tower.

_And so their halcyon days roll out before them in an endless stream of contented companionship. If I were a generous and beneficent storyteller, I would certainly leave it at this point. But I did promise to tell you the dirty parts. So I guess I should tell you what happened next._


	5. What Bodies Want

The creeping influence of the humanish corporation rolls on with each unfolding day. Much to Crowley’s chagrin. He is startled to notice that his husband has quietly and without mentioning it, started enforcing a boundary. This boundary happens right around the back two rooms of the living space in the tower. He is always happy to meet Crowley just about anywhere but this space. At first, the starling is quite confident that it has something to do with hygiene. He doesn’t blame the man. The education in human digestion and other disgusting cleaning rituals was made quite clear to the starling and he is happy to leave the human to that! The less he knows about any of that the better. The hygiene facilities have a steady spell to keep them clean and neither of them has to deal with any more of that unfortunate duty than they have to.

But then what about the second space? It is a sleeping area. A wide soft bed with downy grey pillows and thick warm rugs. His husband had quietly said goodnight and taken his leave several times and retreated into the room with a clear indication that Crowley wasn’t invited. It didn’t bother him. Well. It didn’t at first. But he is in some ways a starling. And that insane torturous curiosity just niggles and pushes and hints. He pictures Aziraphale there. Resting.

The starling had been so distracted and frustrated on the ship. He had always mentally zoned out during the sleeping hours to give himself relief from the impossibly cramped situation. He could kick himself for not paying attention. It makes something explicitly human tighten in his chest. Even wearing his feathers. He can feel it. He hasn’t slept since that one long stint where he was escaping his disappointment. But sleeping is the kind of thing that is different to witness than experience. So he wonders. What does his human wear in there? Does he dream?

There is another form of his consciousness that growls on about how sleeping with your mate is part and parcel of the entire gig and he mentally reviews the footage of Aziraphale relaxing when Crowley assured him that his attention wouldn’t be of any carnal sort. The man has made a boundary. He won’t push it. But. He does pass the window one time. And happens by it again. One time the full moon splashes silver light through the window and spills over the bed and onto the sleeping angel. One arm is thrown above the bright halo of his hair and his bare skin shines like a secret opal tossed into a sparkling river. He is naked to the waist with the grey coverlet twisted down to his marvelously curved hips. Something in the bird sits perfectly stunned at the shining picture. His angel. A jewel set there. Precious and perfect and glittering there in peace beneath his wings. He had captured this perfection and made it his. His shiny find. Something of his humanity aches and hardens and trembles at the vision. His fingers curl to touch and hold. His mind produces explicit details about the scent of his skin and the texture of his hair. Something in his third corporation flames to life and burns with possession and teeth. Every iteration that is completely himself is transfixed and pinned to the craving for hours. Until the moon slips down and the angel begins to stir awake. The earth in the yard is scored with the marks of great claws as Crowley struggles to tear himself away. He is haunted with it. The knowledge. His human corporation whines for respite and his feathered one keeps straightening pillows and moving branches and grooming the angel’s hair. It’s so fucking distracting. He is nesting and horny and possessive. It's all the worst traits of being the most annoying human. If Crowley could strangle his corporation he would. Just to shut it up. But he has to keep getting the groceries. If Aziraphale would stop being so fucking beautiful for just a day. But he doesn’t. He simply flourishes and preens beneath the care of his shapeshifter husband. He shyly glances at Crowley like he is thinking something wonderful and it’s making Crowley half mad. His hands keep touching things. Those blunt wide strong hands keep arranging books and holding forks like treasures.

One day Aziraphale stains his tunic. A big splotch of spreading blue ink has jostled from the shelf and poured all over the shoulder of his garment. His pouting face when he realizes the ruin is permanent is so fucking adorable that Crowley feels his knees going all wobbly. He turns those bright eyes up toward his husband with the obvious hint that his companion should fix that for him. The shapeshifter feels about ten feet tall. He can do this. He can fix something for his mate. The temptation to show off is too much to resist. The starling leans close and turns his eyes to look up at the angel. Pursing his lips, he softly urges the magic to ride his breath and lift the stain and swirl it away into nothing. His breath is heated just a degree or two hotter than any human and pushing the air and magic from his lungs soothes that dark clawed scaled thing within. His mate would scorch beneath his breath if he isn’t gentle. So his careful action is absolutely the ultimate tense precision of talent. If Aziraphale had any idea what he was up to, he would be shocked and embarrassed and Crowley has zero intention on illuminating the truth. He simply straightens his corporation and reels beneath the dizzying view of his mate beaming and flicking those pretty bright eyes up at him and then away. The starling is so hard in his pants that he could pound nails. His mind flicks back to the vision of pale pretty skin beneath moonlight and he croaks some excuse before flapping the fuck out of there to cool down. He has reached some fucking tipping point though, because it isn’t happening. Switching corporations isn’t working anymore.

Crowley’s unhelpful mind reminds him that he has a stash of angel porn. Angel porn that he suddenly remembers in hazy detail. The sorcerer dives into his hoard to search for the pilfered art. There. Well. It is crude. Rough. His angel is far more beautiful than some fucking humans could understand. But the outline of it is there. Aziraphale is lying exposed in a surprisingly mirrored image of how he actually sleeps. One arm is stretched above the bright crown of his hair. His hand, reaching. There. His hand is reaching back to cup the nape of Crowley’s neck. The royal’s lover is lying behind him with long arms curled around him. His angel face is pink with ecstasy. Crowley has his face tipped down to press his lips into his shoulder. So good. Always smells so good. One of the starling’s narrow hands is pinching the pink nub of a nipple while the other is clutching the stiff dripping shaft of his lover. Aziraphale’s legs are wide open and displaying the obscene stretch of penetration. A dark purpling cock is impaling the pretty angel. And those imagined white wings thrashing wide as well. It hadn’t impacted Crowley at all when he had first taken it.

Of course, he had kept it.

So perhaps he is only deluding himself. But nothing in his life has felt like that urgent molten hot rutting need that has him kneeling on a pile of gold and jerking his cock. His hoard shivers and rumbles with a hard earthquake as he screams something primal and hungry and he bites the air and comes. He jackknifes into a protective hunching little curl of writhing corporation as he comes a second time. Black wings sprout from his spine, large enough to support his human sized body and coins and gems scatter as they thrash. Of course, he couldn’t just orgasm, his fucking spelled body demands that every corporation get its little bite of it. So the base of his cock inflates with a hard knot and he coughs some gouts of flame and his feathers all shiver as his human flesh sings and screams with pleasure. It's all rather dramatic and more than a little fucked up. He is immensely relieved to note that something soothing and calming is finally relieving him from these maddening urges. He had managed to stave off his impulses without harming the human. He had fucked off into his hoard and other than some gross sticky coins, everything is “tickety boo”. As his Aziraphale would say. He amuses himself by saying it aloud. It's suddenly the most hilarious thing ever. Crowley sprawls atop his hoard and giggles and waits for his knot to go down. It is all going to be ok.

It was all not going to be ok. The starling discovers that his humanish body really must blush every single time Aziraphale even glances at him for the next solid week. It also must trip on things. And flail. And stammer. It is completely out of control. He has never been so humiliated in his life.

It's so distressing that Crowley attempts to distance himself. He begins to spend more and more time abroad with his wings catching the current and trying to ignore the tugging ache to return. Go back. Go back to his nest. His pretty shiny mate awaits. He can’t. He can’t change the rules on Aziraphale. It wouldn’t be fair. He had promised his intentions were chaste. And besides, one of his corporations is not compatible at all. From his experiment with the porn, he knows that he could easily kill the human. His breakable soft love. Every time he returns, that ache blossoms into something like dying inside his chest. He gets quieter and less human. He visits more and more as the easier companion. The smaller one. The one who doesn’t have to explain or talk. He can just sidle up next to his best friend’s warmth and repeat his mantra. “Pretty bird” he insists and even that sounds mournful. He has everything he has ever wanted right here. But it feels farther away than it ever has before.

_And this is the point, dear friend, that I really do begin to show you why I warned you at the beginning. I really am a bastard for telling you what happens next. Please make sure to grab some tissues and maybe a hug from somebody you love._


	6. Ablaze

Aziraphale can feel Crowley slipping further and further away from him. Every day the sorcerer seems darker and less responsive. There is some static tension in the air. Something ominous and heavy. His starling stays away for more and more days at a time. Stretching groceries becomes a habit that Aziraphale falls into. To save the embarrassment of having to ask his husband to leave on the spare visits that he does make. He wonders if it is something to do with magic. With their arrangement. So he does what any good researcher does. He begins to read. His sharp diligent mind begins to absorb every single scrap of information he can get about the species he married. He makes requests. Crowley retrieves many obscure volumes of priceless information about shapeshifting. About corporations and magic and hoards and aerie. Slowly, Aziraphale begins to chip away at his own ignorance. His dogged research turns up a few amazing details. 

Human corporations for Sorcerers are actually quite rare. For instance. It seems that being a human is rather tedious and slow and awkward for such a powerful being. At least, that seems to be the going opinion on the topic. Also, there are three corporations gained in the lifetime of a shapeshifter. The born corporation is often fully magical such as a griffin or harpy or unicorn. The second corporation is gained at sexual maturity and also without choice. It is usually planet based. Earth has many species but the starling is so perfectly matched to the personality and posture of his husband that he just can’t imagine him being any other. The third and final corporation is chosen by the shapeshifter at will. Once it is chosen, that one sticks for good though and there isn’t any sort of undo button. Aziraphale wonders when Crowley decided that a human was going to be his third state. He doesn’t seem particularly fond of humans or connected to any, that Aziraphale knows. Of course, he could be flying off to hang out with any number of other humans. 

That thought isn’t welcome at all, it turns out. Aziraphale grimaces and pushes that pesky notion right into the dustbin where it belongs. His starling is not hanging out with humans. No way. So. He knows the starling and the human. What is Crowley’s first corporation? A purely magical being. It could be all manner of fantastic creatures. Myth and legend and rumors abound about every sort of powerful being that might be out there. Merman? Faerie? 

It isn’t something he feels comfortable just bringing up, for all he knows it's horribly rude to ask such personal questions. His friend hasn’t told him for a reason. Knowing Crowley, it's probably a sound one. So he turns his attention toward magic. Spells. Even a human can learn spells. It is rather exciting to learn too. Before too long he is happily enchanting his tea warm and dusting the corners of his vast library with a Crowley inspired snap of his fingers. He isn’t ever going to be a being made of magic. But he is smugly impressed with his progress. He wants it to be a little bit of a surprise for his starling. So he always manages to put away his book whenever he hears the flap of wings or the stride of boots upon the path. Once he learns something truly impressive he intends to show the sorcerer what he can do. 

Aziraphale never gets the chance to show Crowley his new tricks. He does something incredibly stupid and human. He falls asleep. He falls asleep at his desk. He falls asleep with burning candles. Suddenly he is completely alarmingly awake. Awake and terrified as flames engulf all the waiting piles of tinder. All those precious books roar with furious fire and he is trapped! Trapped and panicked and all he can think is to scream. Scream out for his starling to save him. To somehow give him wings to get away. Away! And then. Something happens. His mind does this wonderful calming slow thing and he remembers something. A spell. A relocation spell. Yes. He just has to focus. Say the words. 

Snap.

Aziraphale falls into the mud with a coughing hacking shudder and screams from the ripping pulse of magic that has yanked the entire planet in one heaving lurch. The muck is freezing cold and he is dropping to his knees in it anyway. Too weak to stand. His palms hit the slick mud with a splurt and he vomits into the filth. Too much. That much magic has completely turned his body into a shaking mess without his starling there to absorb the impact. But he isn’t on fire. That is the important bit. He isn’t on fire. He is in some freezing slopping bog. Where the fuck is he?

Aziraphale can only mentally ask the question once before his mind goes black and his body collapses completely. He loses consciousness without another thought.


	7. Swallowing the Sun

Crowley is away. Away for two entire days. It is even fortunate he had returned that soon. As his usual jaunts lately had taken him much longer. He was just about exhausted from his constant refusal to give in to what every ounce of magic inside of him insists. His mate. His home. Why is he running away again? He can’t keep doing this. He needs to admit to Aziraphale what he feels and craves and just let the decision lie somewhere else. In those hands. He can’t keep it up. 

Fully decided, he had winged his way back to the aerie feeling a little bit better. Until he spots the smoke. On the horizon. Coming from there.   
Just.   
No.   
Please.   
The darting powerful sweep of his wings gains supernatural speed and he angles straight for his home. Disbelief freezes his heart and he plummets in total shock down, down into the still superheated glowing ruin. A fire. A fucking fire. His mate. His angel. His pretty bright one. So precious. So fragile. Fire would destroy his little prince. It isn’t even the time to consider the dark irony of a fire. He plummets and twists into his humanish shape. He searches. Every inch. Every corner. Every single fucking molecule of his home. With his eyes and his hands and his beak and his magic. Over and over. He looks and looks and looks until his shaking exhausted body collapses. Collapses and swells and heaves with rage. He isn’t there. Not a hair. Not a stitch. Nothing. His mate. His shiny perfect love is gone. His inconsolable grief rips away his corporation and returns him to the form of his birth. A great red dragon. The first serpent of myth. The oldest species of magic. Enormous and screaming his despair across the sky. Heavy stinking gouts of superheated breath ignite the very air and his aerie is consumed in flames. The ash is taken down to dust and even beyond that. The rock is melted to slag and runs in great volcanic rivers down into the gulch. The realms of magic and myth shake with his grief and every creature of magic can feel his loss. “A great wyrm has lost his mate.” It says. “Everything will end in fire” it says. “The end of life is here and he shall swallow the sun” 

All in all, big red dragons with big black wings and big gold eyes tend to be drama queens. It isn’t cute when something that mighty gets hurt like that. It's rather like a star imploding or the seas becoming vast empty graveyards. All of the beings of magic turn for a moment to hide their faces and weep. From the undines twisting their knots in the sea to the dancing wisps that cradle lost children’s souls. Even if they can’t cry. They somehow find that hurting shiver passing terrifying across their corporation and for a moment the magic insists. 

Why hadn’t he been home? Why couldn’t he protect Aziraphale? Fire couldn’t hurt him. He could have saved him in an instant. A blink. A snap. Why had he been so foolish and so lost in his new humanish corporation and so caught up with humanish things? Looking back with every aching regret, he sees his own completely and totally human failings. The awkward stupid way he didn’t communicate or try to fix this minor stupid problem. Instead he had fucking flapped away to hide and be so embarrassingly corporate with his stupid limitations and stupid ideas. It was all completely his fault. 

And his angel is dead. 

Burned to death in his own aerie. The pinnacle of shame for his species. He couldn’t protect his mate even in their home. Not even from his primary element. It is the perfect humiliation. So intricately and perfectly devastating that it never occurs to him that it could have been orchestrated. That some wicked force might have breached his magic and torched his aerie. He is too lost in his mourning that it doesn’t register that if somebody was going to go after a dragon, the heart of his home would be ideal. That maybe his time among the most deviant and sly of all beings, those humans, might have made him underestimate the soft fragile things. It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing has happened. Not all fights between humans and dragons have ended with indigestion.


	8. The War of Wyrms

Waking up was the worst idea that Aziraphale’s body had ever come up with. Waking up meant that he was truly and completely fucked. His poor body had reacted badly to having all of its molecules taken apart and soaked in magic and put back together again. Bodies generally aren’t ok with those kinds of things or we would all be doing it. There is a certain amount of leakage that happens when one is married to a magic person. A contract of any kind with somebody like that does splash a bit of magic somewhere in all the folds and tucks of flesh. Eating food given from the hand of such a being also scatters some trailing bits of the ethereal plane somewhere between your leaping atoms. It is a good thing in his case. If he hadn’t been a little bit touched already he might have exploded. But his molecules had gotten at least a little bit accustomed to the company of his starling. He had been transported once already. Although, that transport was very much like a very expensive vase being held tightly with some bubble wrap, and then some newspaper, and then a cardboard box, and then a wooden crate, and then a shipping container, and then a ship, and then an ocean. All wrapped around his being and keeping all the pieces perfectly together. The transport spell he had used was like taking that precious vase and punting it across a field. Basically, it hurt like a bitch and he was lucky to have survived. 

Unfortunately, that was the easy bit. Bodies do what they will do. What leaves us helpless is the heart. And Aziraphale had lost his. He was well and truly completely lost. He had transported to fuck only knows where and since the aerie had been reached with magic, he had no idea how to return. He had no books. It was the first time in his life that he didn’t have any helpful research right within his touch. There was nothing he could do about it either. He had landed in a pig farm. In the slop pens. He is lucky he hadn’t drowned. He is also lucky that the first person to spot him wasn’t the pig farmer. There is nothing wrong with pig farming, it is a noble pursuit and one filled with satisfaction of filling bellies. But a pig farmer likely wouldn’t have any idea what to do with strangers fished out of his slop pens. Aziraphale was fortunate in having Ms. Device find him first.

If he is to believe her story, Anathema Device had known to come out to that very field at that very time to retrieve his mud coated comatose body. He has no reason to doubt her. He is married to a starling. Stranger things have happened. Waking up in her company could have gone better of course. He had set about struggling and weeping and asking for his bird. His distress wasn’t coherent at all and he managed to fling mud into every corner of her tiny home. They find little spots of mud for months even. Perhaps some leftover transport magic had wiggled into the mud and put it in strange places. Regardless, her casual capacity for kindness had him safely washed and tucked into her very own bed to recover. It was some weeks before he could stand and even longer before he was back to himself completely. 

Once he had managed to get a clear head and a sense of his predicament, he realized he had just gained his second best friend. Anathema was just as clever as she was kind. She had concocted some wild story about a cousin and had kept her mouth shut about all the weird truth. She was a creature of magic herself and subject to all the persecution it entails. Her sense of justice prevailed. The magic touched prince was helpless and small and not gifted in any obvious way. The forces that had brought him there were no fault of his own and he was deeply grieving. Her stubborn chin had lifted in sheer defiance when he had weakly made some nonsense effort at leaving. He was going to stay and recover. And that was that.

Anyone imagining the state of a royal suddenly cast into the mud would have some idea of the situation Aziraphale was in. His patrician sensibilities and his propensity toward fine things stood out like a beacon here in the backside of nowhere. Some might not account for his gentle kindness and his open spirit though. The flexibility that empathy and compassion lends a person are daunting. Sure, he might feel a bit apoplectic about some farmer traipsing his muddy boots all over the indoors, but he certainly isn’t rude enough to say anything or to embarrass the poor soul about them. So the word spreads of course. About Anathema’s peculiar cousin. 

First and foremost comes the welcome news that he can read and write! Excellent for dealing with any sort of legal matter or record keeping that needs more than just the tally sheet and marks used at the market. Having someone there who can read letters and write replies is a neighborhood treasure indeed! Even better if he is a soft sweet sort of gentleman who wouldn’t dream of sharing your correspondence with others. 

Aziraphale’s little habit of acquiring books is very much still the same. Before long, he finds himself truly settling in the little village. He gathers enough good will and resources to create his own little bookshop right near the center of town. All is settled to the satisfaction of everyone. Of course, anyone truly clever can see there is some haunting pain that lives behind that bright smile. 

And so time does what it always does. It marches on without apology or asking any of us for permission. Fifteen long years have passed and no one can even remember that Aziraphale had come from somewhere else. He is that sort of comfortable person. He happily nests himself into the fabric of a place so nobody could imagine him elsewhere! All except for Anathema of course, that clever witch remembers at least once a fortnight to be grateful to whatever fates had brought her sweet friend to their little town. Aziraphale had always sort of wondered if he could handle living a simple and stripped down life. I guess all royals must have the passing fancy of being something ordinary. For him though, it suited his quiet settled ways. There wasn’t the constant public pressure to perform any expected duty. Instead he was allowed to interact with people whenever he liked. Opening his little bookshop with eclectic hours that small towns will tolerate. If you couldn’t go to the shop today, you simply returned tomorrow. And that was that.

But time also does things to small towns without permission, sometimes turning a tiny burg into the center of enormous conflicts and battles that they really would prefer not to be a part of. It so happened to be a Tuesday like any other when the soldiers arrived. An entire shining regiment. A stinking phalanx of horses and mules and oxen and serving staff and entertainers. Suddenly the town had swollen to twice its size. They were in the middle of what had been called a “golden age” and the problem with golden ages is that humans get bored. Soldiers were a little bit upset that they had never participated in any particular war. They were upset that nobody would wave banners for them or throw coins when they came into town. Instead, everyone sighs and grumbles about the waste to tax paying citizens that they even exist. A soldier during peacetime is an unwelcome guest and that didn’t sit so well on people who have strange fetishes for swords. So a campaign had to be imagined. And the campaign currently going on was the “war against the dragons”. You see, some random prince about fifteen years ago had been gobbled up by a dragon and that was enough for hundreds and thousands of soldiers to suddenly feel the need to tromp about the countryside and murder magical creatures of all kinds.

So was the case for the soldiers encamped just outside of our sleepy little town. They had some notion that there could be a dragon in these parts and they were determined to root out this wicked wyrm and bring peace to the land. It was all bollocks of course and Aziraphale was suddenly in the middle of a town in conflict. Something not at all his speed. 

For one, Aziraphale had quietly been gathering very informed books about such things for years now. His knowledge of the magical had only grown over time as he searched for ways to find his starling. He knew exactly how rare the dragon kind were and how detached from the world of men. He knew they would much rather be left alone and slept for hundreds of years at a time. The terrifying stories were just that. Stories! 

The good thing about being the town’s mailbox is that his little shop became the place where this military effort began to post their own missives. Soldiers mostly being incapable of not bragging of their exploits abroad and not especially inclined to the art of writing or reading. He learned that the possible location of this great Dragon was indeed not that far away. Only a long day’s journey. 

He had managed to put all of this aside as not his business, until one particularly rainy night when even his introverted self craved some human companionship. Meeting Anathema at the inn for a pitcher of beer and a nice meal seemed just the cure for his restlessness. At the inn, there was the regular contingent of locals rubbing elbows rather uncomfortably with a boisterous party of soldiers. Soldiers who began to talk more about their exploits as the night wore on. The rape of undines and the descaling of mermaids. The slaughter of an entire clutch of dragons, still incubating in their eggs. Murdering the innocent of all the injustices of life. As the night wore on, Aziraphale could feel his anger mounting. He could feel Anathema beside him too, radiating fear. She was a witch and not born of human blood, though she was fortunate in appearance. 

All he could see before his hazy eyes was the possible slaughter of his starling. His precious bird captured in a net, crushed in cruel hands. His flame haired, not quite human, love pierced through with arrows. He could barely choke down his meal through the horror. 

They left the inn wrapped in a strange silence and tromped through the muddy streets to the warm shelter of Anathema's little home. He didn’t even have to tell her that he wished to talk. She already knew. Together they sat in her little quiet home and began to plan. Aziraphale was going to risk it. He was going to ride out to find the dragon. He wished to warn the dragon of the soldiers. To somehow let them know the danger. He told her that he knew the troop movements and plans. His unsuspecting little shop had gathered enough to know he had a fortnight to do this thing. Fourteen days. He had to find a dragon. Of all things. He had to somehow convince them that he was on their side. And he had to do this without the soldiers finding out. He couldn’t be suspected of colluding with the “enemy”.


	9. Wolves in the Woods

It was unexpectedly easy for him to gather his resources and secure his cover story with the little town. Absolutely everyone could be counted on to make sure that Aziraphale was assumed to be visiting his family somewhere else and his journey had been expected for a long long time. The finest, most capable ass was suddenly available. It only took two days to prepare which is startling when you consider he had to have a fairly long argument with Anathema’s husband about bringing a weapon with him. He had to choose what books to bring as well. The most agonising of choices. A book that covers the topic at hand would be best, he decided. But his tomes about dragons were all quite old and brittle and half of them could be total pish. Mostly written by rumor or legend. Choosing the right one might mean his life or death. Which meant he had to read them again. In the end he made a completely blind choice and grabbed one of the final two of his collection and stuffed it in his bag and made some quick prayer to his starling that he had chosen correctly. 

It took him four days. Four miserable days, for it had rained most of them, soaking his cloak making the ass with him even more recalcitrant and grumpy. And what a nightmare he found. Exactly as the soldiers said. A razed hellish field. Followed by another, and another. Burned down to the dirt and all the miserable scrawny scorched limbs of trees left to beg heaven for mercy. Six days into his journey and this was his discovery. That they were right. The dragon had menaced a little town just like his. The abandoned homes and smoking barns still glow with embers. All gone. The dragon had truly been a thing of horror stories and myths. Standing in the charred smoking ashes of a field, streaked with mud and aching from the weight of his pack, Aziraphale felt his heart sinking.

What if they were right? What if he had come all this way and they were right? Had his blind faith in his own pretty bird led him to believe that all magical beings were like that? He simply stared in despair until a shadow darted across the field. Oh! Looking up! There! The great dragon curled his wings against the westerly dipping sun. The glittering scales flashed like fire against the sky and that shadow loomed bigger and bigger. Then. One wing fluttered off beat with the other. Shuddered. And the beast was plunging, diving to the earth with a scream. 

Had the soldiers made it already? Had the dragon been assaulted and shot from the sky? Had some arrow pierced his great wings?

For some reason that he could not possibly explain to anyone, Aziraphale races toward the dragon. He grips the reins of the ass and begins to hurry as fast as a burnt muddy field will allow. He drags the complaining animal toward the very last place any sane person would go. They reach the farthest edge of the town when he finally gives up on the notion of bringing his belongings. Aziraphale secures the burdened animal to a husk of a building and takes up the edges of his cloak to run.

He has to struggle over the crest of a hill before catching a full view of the felled dragon. There at the edge of a fenced farm is the great wyrm. One great leathery wing twitches in obvious pain and streams with blood. More importantly, the dragon doesn’t seem in a particularly good mood to have a conversation about anything. Mostly they look like they would very much enjoy burning down another village. On a positive note, there didn’t seem to be a contingent of angry humans around making the situation worse. The injury must have been made before this day or elsewhere. 

It suddenly dawns on Aziraphale that his entire mission had been based on some noble folly of picturing himself approaching a great dragon sitting in some kind of throne room or in a cave scattered with gold. Bowing and saying a lot of princely words and getting a solemn nod from an ancient being who would say something wise and beautiful. He hadn’t pictured standing ankle deep in cold mud, surrounded by a slagged field and faced with a pissed off beast. How on earth was he even going to approach this problem? 

While turning over the dilemma, the dragon has started a limping, flapping sort of hop off toward a stand of trees. Great. He can’t just stand there and think. Today seems to have some sort of cursed agenda to make him miserable. He hadn’t travelled all this way just to watch an injured magical being limp into the forest. He still has his mission and even if he is more reluctant than ever, he does still have some stubborn streak that pushes him to carry on. 

Retrieving the ass, Aziraphale picks his way back through the fields and heads into the trees just as the sun is sinking behind the hills. It is obviously not just a day for terrible errors in judgement. The evening is also full of awful ideas as Aziraphale stops following the enormous swathe of broken limbs and trailing drops of blood to notice that he is smack in the middle of a giant forest and the night is rising fast. He has no shelter and no light. His normal absorption with his task had failed to clue him in as to why this was an awful situation right up until the moment he heard a long low howl in the distance. 

Wolves. 

Normally wolves are quite happy to steer well away from pissed off dragons, but this pack had learned a little trick of following just behind the carnage and taking advantage of what prey had been disturbed in the wake of the rampage. This pack had been happily gorging for weeks and the hunt has only gotten better as this dragon’s injuries have left even more opportunities for snapping up the leftovers. 

One particular leftover has just realised his epic mistake. He is now pinned between a rampaging dragon and a pack of wolves. His terrible day had just turned into a terrible night. 

The ass is having none of it. What had started as some frantic huffing and a jittery shying dance, had turned into an all out revolt as the creature dug his hooves into the dirt and complained and refused to make even another step. There was nothing for it. Aziraphale was going to have to let the poor thing go and take his pack upon his back with everything he could carry and hope it would be enough. Hopefully the wolves would let it escape this forest. 

Once again, there is the decision over the book. It is becoming quite pitch black and he couldn’t read the book even if he wanted to. It is more weight to drag around this forest and it could be completely useless. Aziraphale groans. But something desperate and hurting feels stubborn about the book. If he is going to die in these woods, he would prefer to have at least one book at hand. It is hardly a rational thought, but books have been his dearest companions. Well, dearest aside from his sweet starling. That thought rises a hot bile into his throat. No, he cannot think of his lost friend. His husband. His never-lover. If he thinks about dying here in the dark without ever finding that bright clever little bird, he will lose all fortitude. 

So he tucks the book into his pack and releases the ass and plunges ever deeper into the forest.


	10. Into the Cave

At first, Aziraphale is sure that his exhaustion is dogging his steps and that the terror of the pack drawing nearer has made his feet feel more like lead. But as more and more loose stones snag the tips of his boots and as his sweating palms catch him, he notices that the ground is becoming more and more precarious. There is an incline now, the base of some foothills and the tumbling slurry of rocks is quickly turning his impossible journey into a certain death trap. Now he is hauling his soft readerly body up a hillside and the hunting wolf pack is gaining by leaps and bounds. His mounting terror shortens his already quickened breath and a steady stream of helpless tears have started escaping his straining eyes. He has fallen at least twenty times when finally his legs simply refuse. The darkness has brought a chill with it and he is forced to finally admit defeat. This is it. The last inch he can move. 

There in the cold and miserable dark, he curls his mud flecked legs up to his chin. Softly crying his misery and exhaustion out into the miserable night, he waits for the end. It doesn’t take long. He had been right about the pack closing in. They must have been nearly on his heels. It is only a few minutes before a softly snarling grey wolf approaches the large boulder that Aziraphale has collapsed beneath. 

He had actually almost forgotten the dragon. Sure, he had been following the trail of broken branches and blood but it had become some automatic function rather than the rational and logical conclusion that they were actually leading toward an injured dragon. So it scares him almost half to death when, from the other side of the boulder, comes a chilling horrible sound. The pebbles on the ground actually rattle from the bass rumbling roar. The wolves had apparently miscalculated too. Aziraphale had been absolutely sure that his body couldn’t possibly move another step. This is immediately disproven when sheer terror manages to dump enough adrenaline to shoot him out from beneath the rock. He scrambles and races in a great panicking slide away from the awful sounds of a dragon enjoying an evening snack. Great wet crunching slurps are punctuated by terrified yelps and yips and he dare not make the screams he can feel welling in his throat. His panicking mind drives him right into a welcoming shelter from the horrible noises. 

If he had used even a single thread of forethought, he wouldn’t have intentionally stepped into the yawning dark mouth of a cave. Especially if he had reasoned on the obvious logic that a great big injured dragon might have selected this very cave to bed down for the night. Instead, his frantic scrabbling race into the cave actually seems like an enormous relief. All the dripping wet dark trees had started to menace his psyche and the cool dark stone feels safe and solid and dry. His very last reserves of strength are depleted with this horrified dash into the cave. The moment the tide of terror recedes, his shaking legs collapse and he can only swing the pack down in front of him to catch his face before falling unconscious there on the harsh stone floor. 

++++++++++

Hours later, Aziraphale finally stirs and whines with pain that seems to come from every single muscle and bone in his body. He had never been particularly physical and the incredible four day trek followed by the panicked run through the woods and the terrifying escape had managed to bruise and scratch and beat him from top to toe. 

His noise causes a great shifting animal sound to come from somewhere near the mouth of the cave and immediately his instinct to stiffen and catch his breath is justified because something enormous is there. Breathing. All at once, he knows exactly what it is. The great dragon is there, sharing a cave with him and blocking the way out. Fuck. 

A flashback to the horrifying noises of the dragon slaughtering the wolf pack has his bile rising and his legs shaking. He has to get out of here! But several minutes of thinking has exactly zero solutions coming to mind. He is here in the dark. With only his pack. And he has to pee. Rather urgently.

Shit.

Well, he would rather not die pissing his pants. So first, he feels his way to a remarkable little knob of cave wall that he will be able to return to and sets his pack there. Feeling his way a good distance from the knob, he kneels there in the dark and pisses against the wall. It wets the knees of his breeches, but standing in a dark cave offers all sorts of terrors that he isn’t willing to face. Tripping into a hole or pissing into a source of water would be the worst idea. So it is a little bit gross. He is covered in mud and stinking of sweat already. He holds his tiny cheese knife as some sort of comfort and wishes he had listened to Newt. A sword would have been awesome right about now. Then again, when freeing the ass and choosing his belongings, he has a rather strong suspicion that he would have left a sword behind anyway. He isn’t going to negotiate his freedom with a sword. No way in hell. 

Feeling slightly relieved, he crawls back to his pack by feeling for that little knobby spot on the cave wall. Light. He needs light. There is a pitch dipped stick wrapped in wax paper in his pack that he thanks all the starlings in the sky for. Striking his flint against his knife, he procures a weak little flame and holds the stick aloft to scout his terrain. The cave is roughly two round great rooms divided by one dripping streak of water that slicks the limestone and fills a divot with a few handfuls. It is a small mercy. If he doesn’t become a snack in the next few minutes, he can make his way to the little stream and wet his parched throat. There is zero firewood. Not a single scrap of anything that might be used to fuel a fire. Damnit. He will have to conserve his stick.

Pinning his eyes directly at the little trickle of water, he douses the flame. Instantly the cave is plunged back into that breathing dark. Fuck. He feels like eyes are watching him. Any second massive jaws could snap him right up. Instantly he reigns his terror in. Ok. The dragon is probably sleeping off the day. Injury and a full meal. Asleep. He is fast asleep. All he has to do is make it to the water. It takes him a long few minutes to force his terrified body to move. But eventually he is in motion, crawling across the uneven stone floor toward the water. There. His hand finds it first and a sense of rewarding relief soars. He could almost cry at this one successful task. Once he has slaked his thirst and soaked a portion of his cloak to wipe the grime off his face and hands, he does feel marginally refreshed.

He is, however, at a loss for what comes next. He had chosen to travel all this way for an audience with a dragon. And well, success on that front. He is completely at the mercy of the great beast he can hear shifting in the dark. This had always been his intention, and it had always been this dangerous. His own notions aside, his cause still made sense. If this was a beast only defending itself and hoping to be left alone, then he should do his best to make that happen. The mission hadn’t changed. Not really. His understanding of what the mission really meant had changed. For sure. This was no meeting between royals. This was coming up against a force of nature and asking it to please listen. His own underestimating the danger had been the problem all along. 

There was so much literature on the magic of dragons. It was agreed in almost every single text that they shared intelligence that other great magical beings had. This dragon might seem to be brutal and unthinking to him. But humans are often unaware of the things around them that think and feel and have personalities. He knows this for sure. His pretty bird would have been dismissed as just an unthinking and unfeeling little winged snack. But inside was his beautiful Crowley, just waiting to be seen properly. Waiting for a crumb on the sill. 

When there was light. He was going to try. He was absolutely going to try. He had no choice.


	11. Trapped

Aziraphale is jolted awake to the sound of a human screaming in pure terror. The ripping despair in that scream sounds like it strips the voice raw and is followed by the sound of a dragon thrashing and snapping and huffing great blowing hot streams of magic laden breath. The prince shoots to his feet in utter terror, quite sure that he has just heard the last moments of some unfortunate person who had wandered upon the cave. Sunrise has pushed long golden bars of welcome light into his little corner of the cave and his shaking legs feel like they might burn to cinders from the ache in them. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. Only trying to come up with some plan while lying on his back on the cold stone floor. He resists the compulsion to scream himself by the barest fraction of restraint. If he screams he might be the next one down that gullet. It is almost twenty minutes of completely petrified stillness before he hears the sick wet popping crunch and meaty noises of the dragon gnawing bones. 

Maybe he can sneak past while it is distracted with the meal. Perhaps he can slide out of the mouth of the cave and return later to have his meeting with the dragon. A meeting when he is not helplessly trapped in a cave with no fire would go much better. Taking up his pack and gaining his feet alone causes a blazing fiery reminder of yesterday to lance up his calves. 

Focusing on the huge lump of shadow at the mouth of the cave, he angles his body along the wall of the farthest leftmost corner of the cave and begins to inch toward the entrance. It is his first clear view of the dragon. He thinks perhaps that this dragon is not looking their best. Their entire underbelly is caked with heavy mud and the injured wing is held at an awkward painful looking angle. Their scales look milky in some dull way that suggests ill health. The dragon is hunched over a short knobby bone and crunches away at it in such canine focus that it seems cute for a second. Until he remembers that it probably is a human bone. Although, glancing about, he can sense no other sign of a human having been anywhere around. No scraps of clothes or weapons. No pack or anything. Just these hunks of grey wolf fur. Hmmm. It is a wolf bone. Aziraphale is convinced. What happened to the human? Perhaps they escaped. That is a hopeful sign. Perhaps the dragon will let him escape as well. 

He can almost hear his own heartbeat as he inches closer and closer to the mouth of the cave. If he can only. Only. Slip past. Inch by inch he gains more and more ground until he can feel the outdoor breeze wafting across his face. 

A low humming growl rattles the air. For a second he had glanced away toward the exit and this warning sound freezes him on the spot. His eyes shoot back toward the lounging dragon to find that the beast has gained their feet and is looking directly at him. Ok. Stealth is out. Maybe. Speed? Maybe he can rush the entrance? No. Bad idea. Running seems like something you don’t do from a predator. It might inspire a chase. 

His utter stillness seems to have calmed the dragon because they turn back to worrying the bone with those enormous slavering jaws. Once again he begins to inch forward. Once again comes the terrifying bowel loosening growl. Ok. So. Let’s review. The dragon isn’t letting him leave. It seems completely aware that he is there. It seems interested in his movements and any shift for the exit is strongly discouraged. Ok. Well. Perhaps he has been set aside for the dragon’s larder. A snack for later all cozy and tucked away here. The dragon can heal up and have a meal waiting while they recover. Fuck. 

He has to come to another solution. Ok. Maybe. Maybe if he is more valuable than just a snack the dragon will see some use in prolonging his life. Maybe he can show the dragon that he is useful in some way. Friendly. Start some communication. Yes. That is apparently how this day is going to go. He has to befriend a dragon. Great. 

His ultimate goal will be Firewood. He must have a way to see in the dark. He cannot possibly spend another night in the pitch black with only the heavy breath of a dragon to terrify him. 

Resigned to the general direction of his day, he pisses against the wall again, truly hating the knowledge that he will need other facilities soon. Laying out the contents of his pack, all with one eye sharply peeled toward the dragon, he takes a small handful of dried fruit and makes a starving meal of it. There isn’t much. He will need food before the day is out.

The dragon finishes toying with the bone and begins to squirm and rake his back claws against his flanks. Attempting to knock off the bulk of the mud and obviously feeling itchy. Ok. Well. There is a problem that Aziraphale can help with.

Taking off his cloak and dipping the entire length into the pool, he waits until enough water has soaked the fabric so that it drips. Taking up the wet cloth, the prince takes a lot of deep breaths and steels his courage. Ok.

Holding his hands clearly wide out and holding the dripping cloak, he approaches within full view of one great golden eye. He also takes up a soft gentle patter of nonsense conversation. Talking about how nice it will be to feel clean again and how the water will help out. The dragon seems just as wary of him as he is of them. He manages to tiptoe close enough to almost touch one scaled forearm before that great head is suddenly swinging around with dizzy speed and a hot huff of magic laced breath blasts across his cheek. He almost screams. He is quite proud of himself that he doesn’t. It takes a minute before he can unlock his shaking arms, but he finally moves to drape the cloak over one great scaled limb. The dragon makes a huffing noise that isn’t very informative. He isn’t sure if it means that he is about to be lunch or that it feels nice. Since there isn’t a dragon huff translator, the prince continues. He presses his small pale hands against the wet fabric to rub and wipe and clear off a wide patch of scales. 

He manages to clear the entire foreleg top and bottom before the cloak is too muddy to do any good. There is an exhaustion that drops over him as soon as he steps away from those massive claws. Ok. He didn’t die. He showed the dragon one kind thing. One motion that wasn’t violent or aggressive and opened some path toward communication. He sighs with relief and drops the slimy cloak onto the cave floor and dares to take another handful of dried fruit as a personal reward for doing that impossible task. The dragon shuffles a bit and makes some more huffing blows of his great snout and noses the bones in the corner. Aziraphale feels like he can even take his eyes off the dragon for minutes at a time. For the first time in two days he is convinced he might live through this entire ordeal. He needs to lay the cloak out flat to dry it and then beat the mud off and soak it all over again. It is going to be the most tedious thing and he will have to do it on an empty stomach tomorrow. But ok. He isn’t fried to a crisp. Yet. 

Limping back over to the cloak he stops with sudden amazement. The cloak is clean. Completely clean. Not a speck of dirt or mud or anything on it. Leaning down, he touches it. It is soaked. Dripping. His eyes instantly go back to the dragon. For some reason he can sense an amused smugness in the way they are sitting now.

He doesn’t even remember to be terrified when he lifts the heavy wet cloak and steps closer to the dragon. “Did you do this? How?” 

Nothing. But the other massive clawed foreleg casually scoots forward. Right. Aziraphale narrows his eyes at the dragon. Ok. Message received. Gently he bends to the task of slopping the wet cloak down onto the dragon and pushing the cloth along those wide rough scales to wipe the mud off in wide swathes. “You know, if you can clean and soak this cloak you could clean and soak yourself. You big lump.” Something fond roots itself in his chest as he toils and begins to sweat with the effort. The dragon could have cleaned themself. But seems interested in having a cool wet cloth doing the job and human hands toiling at the work. It is the smallest sign. The tiniest hint that the dragon is interested in contact. 

Cleaning oneself in most species is an indicator of mental and physical health. He gets the distinct feeling that this dragon really had been neglecting any work toward caring for their body. Those great curving claws are overgrown and the smallest one curves downward until it is ingrown into the dragon’s digit. The wing injury is at least two days gone and a splintered wedge of bone flashes right at the second joint. The dragon has made no move to groom or bite it or even tuck it carefully back. Aziraphale takes special care to avoid it. 

The cloth is slick with mud again and Aziraphale spreads it on the floor of the cave. This time he watches as the dragon huffs a magic laden breath over the cloth rendering it clean and soaked again. “Ah.” he says, as if it is all clear now. His mind instantly replays the sweet way his starling had sent his own breath over his shoulder, cleaning the ink from it. A hot little lump of emotion knots in his throat. No. He can’t think about that right now. He has to survive this. If he thinks of his pretty bird he really will just fall apart. This cave already has one temperamental dragon in it. He certainly won’t be adding to the drama with his frustrated sniveling.

It takes hours, but he does manage to clear every inch of scales he can. Their lower belly and tail and the crown of their head and neck still is flecked with grime, but he was quite forcefully discouraged from touching there. That first grumpy snap of jaws had almost given him a heart attack and he had dropped the cloth and fled before calming himself and realising that the dragon had just been drawing boundaries. Fair enough. No touching. He begins the habit of checking for a snap before fully pressing his hands against any new area. They had shortened it to just opening their mouth to show it is a no touch zone. Progress. 

His entire body aches and quivers with exhaustion by the time he is done. Another inspection of his pack brings forth a small sleeping sack and a dry pair of socks. Peeling the muddy crusted breeches off his legs is an immense relief. He spreads them on the cave floor next to the cloak. He hopes the dragon will understand that they really could benefit from being cleaned as well. His food is depleted and he curls up inside his sleep sack to warm his bare legs. He falls into a restless sleep just as the night swallows the cave again.


	12. Bread

It is the second morning that he is jolted awake with a bloodcurdling scream. This time he shouts himself before he can even fully register that he is awake. The sun hasn’t risen yet beyond the slightest hint of purple on the horizon. The alert and scrabbling dragon is once again huffing and threatening the mouth of the cave to warn off intruders. Once again, there is no sign of a person having entered the cave. Chased off? Again? Had they brought back somebody else? But those people would have been prepared for a dragon. That scream was terrified. Not prepared. Aziraphale crowds closer to the mouth of the cave to peer out into the dark, and the dragon instantly protests with an outright howl of fury. Those wings, even the injured one spreads wide and the dragon hunches as if to pounce. Shit. Shit shit. Ok.

Opening his hands wide and softening his voice, he backs away, all the way to the back of the cave. “I’m not going to leave. Ok. Ok. I’m here. Shhhh. It’s ok. I only wanted to see outside. I’m sorry. I’m gonna sit down.” Sinking down to the cold stone floor, Aziraphale draws his bare legs up to his chest and cries. He is crying from terror and from despair. His stomach is already howling for food and waking up to instant panic has jangled whatever calm he had gained yesterday. He sobs until his throat hurts and his breath is all just hiccups and snuffles. 

A hot huff of dragon breath blows across his socked foot. Looking up, he sees that the dragon is now lying on their belly. Enormous head turned to the side to watch him. Another hot huff of breath and the dragon noses a round tan rock toward him. Wait. That isn’t a rock. Wait.

A round sphere of golden bread rolls across the floor. Bread! It is cold. It has picked up dust and he has to brush it off. But it is bread. Oh thank the starlings above! His grateful heart sobs again with relief as he rips off a chunk of the bread and sinks his teeth into it. Oh. Glorious. There is honey baked into the softer center of it. His favorite. He hums with pleasure and licks his fingertips. The bread is gone before he even glances up from it. The dragon is nosing a second round of bread toward him. More. What? And another. Another. Four fat golden rounds of bread. He laughs. The dragon is creating them. The dragon is feeding him and seems to not know when to stop. Another loaf is bumping over the stone floor and Aziraphale laughs and signals a stop to the bread parade.

The sudden surprise of food brightens his spirits dramatically. Checking on the breeches, he finds them clean and dry. What a delight. He is so overflowing with good cheer that he hums to himself as he uses the wet cloak to wash his face and hands. The dragon looks smug if he can ascribe such an emotion to the beast. 

Today he should try his best to convince the dragon that he can help with the injury. It is going to take some courage for sure. 

Brainstorming for a bit, he assembles what he has on hand and finds a reasonable approach to setting the joint. He is probably going to get bitten. If not totally immolated by an angry dragon. But at this point, he has sort of adjusted to that reality. Amazing how we can get used to the most terrible things. 

Picking up the wet cloak is the first step. Slowly he approaches them, same as yesterday. Familiar. This is familiar. Gently he cleans dust from already mostly clean spaces, covering easy ground. Carefully he telegraphs his intention to head toward the injured wing. He gets a low hiss of warning. Backing off, he shows the long metal bar he has extracted from the frame of his pack. The sturdy strips of the fabric he ripped from his cloak. Tying it carefully to his arm in demonstration. He shows his work and edges close to the wing again. A low heavy groan is the reply for his efforts. Again, he dearly wishes for a translator. Ok. It wasn’t the hiss. Maybe it was a capitulation and some reluctant permission? Watching the dragon’s face directly and waiting for the open mouth that would signal a no, he reaches one hand to touch just the edge of the sprawled wing. The dragon huffs in a way that sounds afraid a little bit. Understandable. This is gonna suck. 

Carefully, Aziraphale unwraps his own arm and reaches for the wet cloak again. Watching the dragon’s head from the corner of his eye, he eases the wet cloth along the crusting dried blood on the bottom edge. Deciding that the cave is much too quiet and his nerves are much too tight, he begins to hum a slow soft song. A song about a starling. He had found it one terrible lonely winter and sang it when things were darkest and when he was afraid. Holding the wing as gently as he could, he cleaned the stretching leathery folds all the way up to the broken joint. 

From a distance, this dragon might appear to have black wings, but up close, when you look at the scaled finger bones they have a speckling of white scattered like stars. The red begins halfway up the fingers as a pale pink and graduates to a blood red. It is quite beautiful and Aziraphale is caught for a moment staring at the mottled coloring. Here he is. Cleaning a dragon’s wing. How remarkable. Him. He was sure he knew every single path his life would take from birth. His little tower and his tea. Everything changed because of that little bird. 

Aziraphale sighs and puts the thought away. Again. His starling would be impressed though. Proud. He is sure of it. Traipsing out here and daring to save a magical being. It is rather heroic. Maybe he would even surprise his starling with this grand adventure. He can imagine it though. Sharing the stories of his exploits while they drink a bottle of wine in their book filled tower. 

Taking up the broken wing with both hands, the prince shoots a very intense look directly at the dragon’s face. He tries his hardest to convey that he is about to cause some pain and that he truly means only to help. The dragon closes their eyes. Message received. Gasping a little and straining with the effort, he grasps either side of the broken limb. He pictures the motion required in his head at least four times before he manages to make the move. Lifting and bending the wing and urging that white bone back beneath the flesh. The dragon screams and their back feet kick and the other wing churns the air. Aziraphale hangs on as tight as he can to keep the broken limb together all while the dragon bucks and yowls. It takes a few minutes, until they finally settle, trembling and huffing. He dares to release the unbroken half of the wing for the second it takes to grab the metal bar and tuck it under his armpit. For a second they both rest and catch their breath. Then, gently, the prince folds the wing closed, sliding it entirely flat against the dragon’s back. There is one long relieved tremble that rushes along the scales and the dragon whines a long low note. The muscles must have been aching and tearing from being stretched wide for more than two days. 

Aziraphale quickly anchors the wing with the long straight metal bar and binds the wing tightly down into a bundle. The dragon doesn’t seem too happy with having a wing bound and snaps at the trailing edges of the strips of fabric that hold the wing in place. The prince quickly reprimands them and pushes the dragon’s great head away from picking at the dressing. He gets an annoyed huff back at him and a low grumble. 

Suddenly, he realizes what he has just done. Bullying a dragon away from picking at his splint. Like a fretting mother swatting a child. It is an amusing picture and he laughs softly at himself. The cheek of it. Two days living with a wild, evil, village destroying dragon and he is bossing it about and fretting over their health. 

Through some creative motions and frustrated hours, they manage some crude understanding that the smell is getting bad. That a corner of a cave is hardly an acceptable latrine and something must be done about it unless they wish to endure the flies and stink of it. He had accomplished this feat by ushering the dragon over to the mess several times and miming exactly what he thought about it. Somewhere halfway through his exaggerated holding of his nose and pushing motions, he thinks of what Anathema would make of this little show. The absurdity of the notion suddenly has him doubling over with laughter. Look at the wild wreck of a dirty comic hopping from foot to foot and holding his nose and pointing at shit while a dragon peers at him. His first burst of laughter startles the dragon and the beast leaps back. Then the funniest look passes over them and if an enormous scaled dragon can look confused, this one manages it. It makes it even more funny. Aziraphale laughs until tears are streaming down his cheeks. He just can’t stop. 

The dragon gives up on trying to understand the human, huffs a long hot breath that scorches the pile of waste down to ash and then retreats to their side of the cave. 

There are little round meat pies for dinner. All placed conspicuously in the center of the cave in some artful design. They are still cold. They still get dust and dirt on the bottom. But the gesture is one of kindness and appreciation for his care today. He can see clearly that the dragon watches him eat with apparent satisfaction. Human food prepared with human care and arranged in a human way. It is intelligent. No doubt about that. This dragon has had close contact with his kind. Not only that, but they are aware of some idea of reciprocity. It is exactly the direction he wishes to be heading. 

Another exhausting day. But this one ends with a feeling of contentment if not comfort.


	13. Revelation

He wakes to the sound of a low desperate moan. It is soft, barely heard from across the cave. A human. He is sure of it. Three days now, the sound of a human in distress has dragged him from sleep. Thankfully this time not a piercing scream. Aziraphale scrambles for his stick. Trembling from the chill and blinking in the pitch black, the prince strikes his flint and ignites the pitch. Raising the light, he squints and tries to adjust to the sudden blinding flare. Across the cave, toward the dragon’s side. Only. There is no enormous red scaled lump. The cry comes again, a whine. 

The prince moves to his feet, pushing his hand further out toward the center of the cave. There, illuminated by flickering golden light is the pale bright shape of a man. There is a man lying there. Fair skinned and curling his legs and arms as if he can shelter from some terrible thing. A wet ribbon of blood is smeared over his hip and chest and arm. He is stark naked and a bright tangled mess of red hair haloes against the black stone. Suddenly Aziraphale cannot breathe. He cannot move. Crowley is there. His bird. His wondrous friend crying, shivering, naked, and bleeding. After fifteen long years. Surely. He can’t be. He must be hallucinating. It is impossible. Had he come to rescue him? Will the dragon return and finish the job? 

Aziraphale feels his face burning hot with tears as he stumbles forward. Crowley looks emaciated. His ribs and hips jut out alarmingly. His face is lined with pain and deep grooves have carved themselves into the corners of his mouth. Suddenly a terrified scream rips from his throat and Aziraphale is so startled that he drops the stick. The flame wavers and sputters and in the flickering light, the prince watches those bright golden eyes fly open wide. One long spasm rolls down the shapeshifter’s body and the flame begins to gutter and die. Just as the burning pitch gives one last flicker, the hunching black shape of the dragon bulks to fill the cave.

The agitated beast is scuffling and huffing and pacing the mouth of the cave the same as every morning. Crowley is a dragon. Has been a dragon. All along! This dragon. This very one. Why had he not said anything? Why had he not greeted Aziraphale at all? Was everything they had so forgettable? What was happening? Crowley had retreated back into the cave now and was nosing the metal bar. Aziraphale can hear it scraping the stone. Of course. Transformation had completely destroyed the splint. No wonder there had been blood everywhere. 

Aziraphale makes his way back to the still warm sleeping sack with his mind turning the puzzle around and around. Crowley had three corporations. The starling, The human, The dragon. Dragon being his birth state. The starling his juvenile state. And the human as his chosen adult form. For three days now, there has been no sign of the starling and only the sleeping human plagued with nightmares. He doesn’t have all the pieces. Something is very wrong. This dragon has been in obvious distress. He is malnourished and dirty and wounded. They...He...Had completely destroyed a village. The path of destruction was impossible to explain away. Why? There was intelligence here. He had already started a path toward communication and there was no sign that the dragon wasn’t capable of understanding. How can he reconcile the friend he knew and this terrible reality? 

He has to finally push away his circling thoughts. Focus on what is needed now. First. He must check the damage to the wing from the transformation. He will try to use Crowley’s name and any memory he has to trigger some recognition. They have to leave this cave. If he could somehow. Some way. Get the dragon to transform to starling or human. They could travel. Without being seen. They could escape back to the village and recover and rest and there would be some chance of surviving for both of them. 

It feels like forever before the sun finally gives him enough light to rise for the day. They must have only managed a few hours of sleep. It is very obvious by exactly how cranky Crowley is. Examining the wound had almost cost him a hand. Yanking quickly back and scolding the dragon only gets a snap of teeth in return. Great. They have reached the “sniping at each other” level of communication. He can’t exactly blame the dragon. It is his third day without a proper bed, no toilet facilities, and nothing but cold meals. Crowley hasn’t had a proper meal either since his one mission in life seems to be keeping Aziraphale from leaving the cave. Possessive bastard. The dragon is far more malnourished than the prince had known, judging from the skin and bones he saw sleeping. Why doesn’t he manifest himself a haunch of meat or even live prey in the same way he brings bread to the cave? It seems to be the same nonchalant disregard for his own well being. Aziraphale could scream with frustration. The wing is surprisingly still on the mend. Pushing the bone beneath the skin again seemed to be enough intervention to begin the healing process. Transformation had reopened the wound but the bone seems to have benefitted from the binding regardless. Convincing a cranky dragon that he should allow his wing to be bound again is worse than wrangling cats.

They both retreat from each other’s terrible company after that harrowing task is finished. Aziraphale to his book and Crowley to worry the bones that are just broken little shards. At some point, the snuffling sound of gnawing stops. The prince looks up from his reading to see the dragon is falling asleep. Big golden eyes slow blink and his tail curves to comfort his belly. Almost instantly the transformation slides over him in one great flexing wave. A hot breath of magic and there is Crowley again. The big metal bar of his binding falling to the side and the sleeping man curling tighter as if feeling the chill of the stone. Sleep. Transformation is happening in his unconscious state. When he surrenders to sleep, his body takes over and changes him to human. Fascinating. Useful? Maybe? If he could somehow keep Crowley asleep for a long time, like, an entire day? He would need some herb or potion for that. He doesn’t have any books with recipes and no way to gather ingredients. How much would you give a dragon? Yeah. No. It's interesting information but not helpful. 

It is only a short time later when the low distressed sounds start up again. Crowley is having a dream. A nightmare. It seems like the human corporation suffers from emotional distress. The dragon has subsumed most of his intelligence and the survival instinct of cooperation in favor of impulse and basic animal functioning. An unhappy animal for sure, but not one that is suffering emotional strain. It seems to be a split. A coping strategy. Compartmentalisation. Taking the mental strain and stress and pushing it away during the waking hours and letting the more deadly and pissed off and armored self stay forward facing all day. 

The starling had never slept during their time together. Or if he had, he had done it away from Aziraphale. It could be his most vulnerable state. Impossible to control and thus, he hides it away from humans. Possible. He did sleep when his feelings were hurt during those first delicate days. 

Maybe he only sleeps when things are bad. Maybe sleep is his body trying to heal the damage. The dragon is not well. Sleeping gives him time to recover a little. Dragons are well known for very long hibernation style rests. Even up to hundreds of years. But that vulnerability and the mind left wide open for the subconscious to bring up the mental anguish. Maybe that transforms him to what he believes to be his most vulnerable self. The one he doesn’t wish to deal with. The one he doesn’t show people. Humans are after him. There is no love between Crowley and humans. He had always told Aziraphale about the terrible humans that hated sorcerers. The horrible ones who would kill magic folk. 

The prince knew humans were after the dragon. Hounding him. Injuring him. It might cause him to seriously want to reject the human corporation. Especially after Aziraphale had the accident and the fire. The loss. He must have believed the prince to be dead. They were so happy. All suddenly gone. What if he believed that humans did that? Having his home burnt down is terrible. And a friend lost to the fire. Awful. Maybe all of that is associated with humans. No wonder Crowley would prefer to be the dragon. It must feel safer. To be bigger. Stronger. To have less emotional distress. To be able to check out a bit. And it is his first birth identity. The comfortable one. The shape of his childhood. It would be a relief. 

Ok. The Dragon is enormous and they can’t travel like that. And the human is a wreck and seems to be completely rejected by Crowley. The starling. He has to bring the starling out. But. How?


	14. The Long Way Home

He should have guessed. The inspiration hits him like lightning. Just as Crowley has once again left a pile of golden bread for him. Oh! It. It might work! 

Breaking the bread in his fist, Aziraphale crumbles a handful. Turning his side to the Dragon to appear the least threatening, he scatters the crumbs on the ground. “Pretty bird.” He coaxes as he backs away from the treat. The dragon eyes him with that confused head tilt. “Pretty bird. Cmon.” He repeats and backs even further away from the crumbs. 

The dragon approaches the scattered mess with his head cocked. Then, he dips his snout in a quick peck at the ground. It is the most hilarious sight in the world but Aziraphale can’t risk laughing at the image of this great scary dragon pecking at the floor like a little bird. In only a blink, suddenly there is a great whoosh of magic and the starling is there! Contentedly harvesting the little feast and tipping his sleek little head back to watch the prince. “Pretty bird!” Crowley insists and flares his wing. 

The gorgeous little thing is also worse for wear. He is missing great patches of feathers and the one injured wing stays tucked against his little body. The awkward flapping of one wing seems so incredibly vulnerable that instantly Aziraphale wants to take the tiny bird into his cloak and protect him. He has a feeling though, that if he menaces the bird in any way, that bird will quickly become a dragon. He cannot startle or hurt him. He has to be patient and work to gain his trust again. 

It takes five days. Five days of calling the bird out, offering food and warmth and comfort. Starting to welcome him onto his shoulder and hair. Waking to screaming and thrashing Crowley at night. Sometimes facing the dragon and despairing of ever coaxing that clever little bird out again. The wing makes a remarkable recovery. Binding it when Crowley is the dragon or the starling makes up for the eventual thrashing destruction of it at night. 

Before, when Crowley had known him as this little bird, he had been aware of what they were talking about, what they were doing. So he carefully explains everything to his feathered friend. He begs for some demonstration that the passerine is understanding. Crowley is reluctant. Distrustful. He is often more willing to withdraw into his dragon rather than hear Aziraphale talking about difficult things. But there is some sign of cooperation when Aziraphale steps out of the cave for the first time in eight days. The starling trills and grooms his hair peacefully as he rests on a rock outside in the sunshine. Gloriously happy at their progress. 

They are running out of time though. There is smoke on the horizon at the next dawn. A sign of an encampment. It is likely the soldiers. They have to leave. There is no more time. Aziraphale has hoarded as much bread as he can. His pack is ready. He calls the starling out with a morning scatter of crumbs and makes a warm little nest with the hood of his cloak. The tiny bird can rest there or use his shoulder for a perch. He begins a warm happy conversation that rambles and comforts them both and sets his face toward home. 

What had been a one day distance turned into three days even without a drop of rain. A sketchy moment with a stubborn dragon had been a close thing. A passing mounted hunter had startled Crowley into donning his scales and everything was winding up to be completely dicey when Aziraphale looked his dragon straight in the face and told him that on no uncertain terms was he to eat strangers. The perplexed face on his dragon is so funny and familiar by this point that Aziraphale feels a terrible fondness rise in his chest for the scaly menace and he hugs him right around one great shoulder while pressing his face against his neck. The dragon huffed in annoyance and in the next moment the starling was chattering his newest word. “Bread.” he said. “Bread bird. Pretty bird. Bread.” 

Aziraphale waits for night to fall and quiet to descend upon the town to sneak down the main street. He doesn’t know what in the world he will do if the dragon shows up inside his home. He will not fit in any room. He needs Anathema right away. They will need a space to settle in. They are both exhausted but he cannot risk allowing Crowley to sleep in the house. If he wakes afraid, he will be a dragon. And that will be a lot to explain. To everyone. The relief and joy of his dear witch friend is like feeding his very soul. He stinks. He knows he does. He was afraid he might not live to see her again. The bedraggled and talkative little bird he has brought with him is going to change all of their lives. 

It takes almost two hours of explaining before Anathema offers him the use of her grandmother’s land. There is a barn on the premises and plenty of farmland to spread out in. The inheritance had been too expensive to maintain, but the barn is the most stable structure on the property, the house in ruins. They won't disturb anyone out there. 

They all split up into various tasks. Aziraphale settled in the abandoned barn, Anathema to gather supplies, her husband to draw water and load firewood. All is quite satisfactory until Crowley spots Newt with the shining axe. Suddenly there is a dragon facing the barn door with his wings mantled wide and hissing. It is a tense moment of disarming himself and Aziraphale coaxing and singing the song of the starling and setting to work on building a fire before the dragon calms enough to at least stop huffing and curl his legs beneath himself. Newt looks more than a little bit shaken and hastens quickly to finish and flee the scene. 

They settle so comfortably after the misery of the cave. Aziraphale can hardly believe how his own need for things had pared down to the simple fine taste of a meal, the chatter of his starling, the warmth of a fire. During the days, he labors with Newt to improve the barn. They clear and clean the floors, days of ripping all the rotting timber and replacing it with long sturdy fresh boards. During the nights he sleeps with one restless half of his mind turned toward the room where Crowley will wake screaming again. He has started to say words. Perhaps being surrounded by humans that talk all day has reached that part of him. He begs for the fire to go out. He begs for Aziraphale. He mourns his friend. He dreams of death and loss. He calls him his mate. His husband. His pretty prince. The love in his voice is heartbreaking. Aziraphale wonders if Crowley will ever know he is alive there with him.


	15. A New Beginning

The town has transformed as well. Soldiers had returned from the dragon hunt with a vendetta and they showed no signs of any plan to move along. Even more disturbing, they had turned their attention to citizens of the city as targets for their hate. Eliza, the petite pale little laundress hadn’t harmed a soul. She inherited dainty little pointed fae ears from some ancestor and a soldier had taken it upon himself to strip her there in the streets and whip her with a dressage whip. The outrage at this horrible action had created quite a stir and the council had convened to discuss tossing these assholes out. Aziraphale attended the meeting. He was asked by the council to represent them. To write the notice and plea to the king. To put forth their demand for justice. 

The royal hand was cruel. The declaration sent back established a permanent post for the soldiers and a heavy tax upon the citizens to support the bastards. The city reeled with distaste. Aziraphale began to get missives pouring in from surrounding communities of the fae, of the djinn, of the merfolk, the kin, all of them complaints written about the actions of this military force thrust into their communities and harassing the magic kind for hundreds of miles. The city felt helpless in the face of this terror. Aziraphale quietly began to write his own letters. He asked for quiet meetings, for donations and for every one of these folk to lend their bodies and purpose to the task of pulling this cancer from their heart. 

He holds a meeting with every citizen in the square. He tells them about his husband. His dragon. The starling. The sorcerer that lives in the barn. He tells them that he is unwell and under his care. He shares with them the struggle and the danger. They surprise him so much. They decide to welcome the starling into their city. They understand and have compassion for his struggle. They listen to his story.

The people stand. City election held Aziraphale as their rightful ruler. His quiet confidence and stubborn resilience pushed the little town to oust the soldiers. They stand with the magic folk. All are welcome. And they come. First in small huddled dirty little families. The most desperate and ill and ragged. But word spreads across the kingdom and they all come. They spread tents and lead caravans and the city swells and heaves with magic. The king threatens war. They stand firm. The little city that said no. We have our own royal.

A prince that lives in a barn. Still attendant to his beautiful starling.

The care, food, clean water, and companionship begins to heal the dragon. His golden eyes sharpen with attention and focus and he begins the work of grooming himself with one great disgusting shed and a solid week of scratching his flanks on every barn wall. The dull layer that had coated him is stripped away and his ruby scales shine with a rainbow gloss and those great black wings seem to cast their own dark light. The starling shares the discomfort of the shed by molting feathers into every corner of the barn until Aziraphale is sure he will find feathers forever. 

None of the recovery is so startling as the night that Crowley wakes and doesn’t change. Aziraphale finds him in the morning. No screams. No nightmare. Crowley is simply awake and naked and lying on his side in the enormous dragon sized nest of padded mattress. His eyes are open and they track Aziraphale as he makes his way through the room. The prince chooses to continue his day as he always does. Only changing his routine by laying out a soft long shirt for Crowley if he wishes to dress. The starling ignores it. He stays in human form for almost four hours. 

Aziraphale cries that day. In secret. In relief.

Crowley will come back to him. Some day.

It happens more and more. Aziraphale drones on and tries not to hover and doesn’t dare touch his husband. He only sets aside food for his love, and clothes, warm sweet wine, soft blankets. Half of the time his offerings are ignored. Every time they aren’t is claimed as a private victory. 

Finally, one day Aziraphale is reading a pile of correspondence when he speaks. 

“Angel?” he whispers in a hoarse disused voice. “Are you real?” 

“Yes Crowley.” He responds just as quietly. “I’m here.”

It isn’t the last time he asks. 

Eventually he believes him, or acts like he does. One day he snaps and soft black clothes slide over his skin and for a second he is so much the old beautiful bright Crowley that Aziraphale feels his heart pound madly with love.

Another day Aziraphale finds a little golden cake on the edge of his desk. Sitting in a bar of sunlight to shine like a jewel. His eyes fill with tears. His husband is bringing him food again. Something sweet and beautiful to eat. He shares his crumbs with the darting little bird that comes to preen his white curls and talk about bread. 

His Crowley never did learn to walk without slinking and Aziraphale sneaks a glance from the corner of his eyes every time that lanky human corporation sways into the room and flops onto furniture with no regard to how human beings should sit.

They have a bottle of wine and Crowley begins to weep as he gets drunk. Aziraphale comforts him until the dragon shows up to snap his teeth and search for his chewing bones. They exist a day at a time. The starling has never gone far, circling the property and always returning with a nervous need to preen and check on Aziraphale. The prince begins to take the bird with him on his walks. To let him stretch his wings and to greet their neighbors. They begin to talk. About their day. About memories. About politics. Crowley surprises himself by cracking a joke. They both cry instead of laughing at it.


	16. Look for Me in Libraries

Winter passes and the spring begins to open the roads. The kingdom will be under siege. The former king is sure to set his mind to retaking his land. 

It was time for the conversation, the one he didn’t want to have. The one that hovered unseen over every minute. The last painful inch between himself and the man he still loved. 

“Crowley, we need to talk.” Aziraphale gestures to the soft chair that his starling prefers.

A wary sort of tension stiffened his husband’s shoulders. They both know that this is not going to be easy. 

“It is about the time we were apart. I can’t even understand the depth and pain that your species experiences. I know that there are differences. Your people have inescapable hurt inflicted upon them. It is beyond what anyone should tolerate or bear. The campaign of hate and fear, the constant awareness of it. I can’t. I can’t ever know what that is.” 

The absolute sincerity and burning empathy that rings in Aziraphale's voice is twin to the motion of his hands and the wet blueness of his eyes. 

“But there is a responsibility that you took on. The moment you decided to become a human. The second you took that form. Maybe you didn’t think of it. Maybe it was just a means to an end. A way to help me. But you became a human. You are a human. If it is five minutes or five thousand years. You are. And you can’t go back.” 

Aziraphale cannot sit any longer and he stands to pace the length of the room. 

“Crowley, you looked at humankind, and for a second, for a little while, you felt something good about us. You saw something right and beautiful. Even if it was just in one person. And because you did that, now you have a responsibility. To save that. To protect that beauty. To hold whatever that one bright thing is and keep it safe. That is what a mate is. The one who stands and fights for the person they have chosen. That was your responsibility.” At this, Crowley seems about to say something. Obviously he agrees with this sentiment that matches so well with the dragon instinct. Aziraphale stops and pins him with his eyes and shakes his head. “I’m not finished.” he says with steel in his tone.

“It didn’t end when I was presumed dead. Just because I was gone didn’t mean that your part had ended. You were mated to me, yes, but you also joined humanity. You joined an entire world full of people that share so much in common with me. There are people with my hair. People with my eyes. People with my love of books. People with my arms and legs. People with my smile. People who wake and sleep. People who share the same sky with me.” The prince turns to cup Crowley’s face between his trembling hands.

“You should not have mourned me.” He whispers. “You should have FOUND me. Not by searching high and low. Not by razing and raging. You should have found me in the blue eyes of children. You should have searched for me in libraries and in tea halls. You should have looked for me in mothers and fathers. What do you think I am Crowley?

I am the result of thousands of human beings waking up and eating bread and having sex and holding love for just long enough to keep us all going.   
I am NOT singular.   
I am not just one person.   
Just like you exist in three bodies.  
I am not just the man standing here.  
I am the woman who gave me her breast at birth. I am the man who carved the field to spread our table. I am nothing without all of them. Every one of them. I did not spring into this world fully made. It was the hands picking me up out of the mud and standing by my side that made me.”

“I am disappointed, mate of mine. I am angry and hurt. You not only ignored your responsibility, you went out of your way to become the terror of my people. I was raised in a kingdom of selfish fools who behaved like this. Who thought they had some right to steal the joy and life of innocents. 

I hated them, Crowley. 

I lived in fear and misery until you found me. I thought that hiding away and keeping to myself would somehow absolve me of their sins. 

I’m done absolving myself of it. 

The people here need us. They ask to live free. I want to help them with that. I don’t know if we can do it. If we can win that freedom. But I will stay here. I want you to join me. I want you to help me with that. You have so much to give.   
And you owe it to them.  
For the thing you did.  
Your species has almost been annihilated by hate and fear. You have to be better than them. You have to save the ones you can. ” 

Crowley's face is an etching of impossible pain. His knee jangles with unspent energy. He looks about two seconds from transforming into a starling and running away.

“Crowley. I love you. I want you so much. But I need to know that you understand this mistake you made. That you will work hard to heal some of the hurt you caused. I need to know you are aware of what being my mate means. Protecting what is important to me. 

I need to know this will never happen again. 

No matter what loss or hurt you suffer. 

You have to love me more than that. You have to show me that you love me more than that. No matter what instinct you might feel. Your love has to be greater. I cannot.” Aziraphale stumbles around the last of his words. He feels drained of all energy. 

“I cannot be with you until I am sure that you are the person I need by my side.” 

Aziraphale looks up at the slight rush of wind, to see the starling has already fled the room.

What had he done? Had it been too much? Had he sounded as cold as he felt? Aziraphale’s heart is a burning stone and his fingers are like ice. He may never see his starling again. It might have been the very last ounce of pain that Crowley could take. Grief and madness and now this rejection. It was heaping coals upon the head of somebody barely hanging on to sanity. He hurt. Oh this impossible thing. He had meant every word. He knew it was what they needed to be whole. 

He is going to take on the struggles ahead and be a champion for his people. He cannot do this with a division in his life. He cannot have a husband that festered in hatred and fear of humankind. It absolutely felt like cutting off a limb but he would not stand in any seat of power with corruption wrapped around his heart. He had to remain firm on this point.

He didn’t feel firm. He felt watery and weak and hurt. He wanted to go to his lover’s tower and lock himself and Crowley inside and never come out ever again. He wanted to kiss and hold his beauty and share crumbs with the starling and lie sheltered in his dragon’s dark wings.


	17. A Kingdom Bright and Free

It is the longest week of Aziraphale’s life. No sign of the starling. Just long days of meetings and sending letters and making alliances. Hours upon hours of using every single shred of his accumulated knowledge to put forth his very best effort in bringing the magic folk of the world into his embrace. On the seventh day, Aziraphale rises with hardly any sleep and sits in attendance at yet another council meeting. The bickering is reaching an all new level of annoyance and for a second he regrets even rising from his bed. Only for a second though, because the great hall doors swing wide and a thin figure in all black slips into the room. Crowley. His bright beautiful husband who offers a quiet nod to the room and takes up a chair in his hands. Carrying it to the table in the absolutely astounding silence, he slides it into the space next to Aziraphale’s seat and sprawls in his boneless way. 

“Sorry I’m late.” he apologises and sits forward with an obvious intention of offering his full focus. 

A bright flash of happy pride flashes through Aziraphale from head to foot. He is back. He is here and he is clearly on a mission. He doesn’t speak much in that first meeting. At the sixth and seventh and tenth it becomes clear that his lifetime of dealing in the world of magic is a great benefit to their cause. His quick and clever intuition and the natural charm doesn’t hurt either. Put Crowley in a room with diplomats and something about his warm smile and the grace of his hands and the emphatic way he states their cause. They listen. They all listen. 

They begin to work in tandem, these husbands. The construction of legislation and structure, the drawing from historical records and the thousands of daily tasks and order of importance is well within Aziraphale’s talent. The clear statement of goals, the currying of favor and yes, the procurement of gold and commission of organised defense, all of it so handily managed by Crowley. It is astonishing how fast they rally the people and win the hearts of their tiny kingdom. And of course there is a great big terrifying dragon to discourage those who might have some grudge toward the magic folk who live within its gates.

Of course, the people of that great city, they all have tales of their handsome prince and his striking consort. Seen together most of the time, having a meal, laughing. And sometimes the prince alone with a bird tucked in his collar. It is the romance of the ages. A human and the dragon kind so in love that they shine. 

A year had passed so quickly that it could hardly be believed. A year of impossibly difficult work. Aziraphale and Crowley pass a bottle of wine back and forth in one of the last cozy corners that still exist in the current construction mess of a manor being built in the place of the barn. Aziraphale had washed himself in a basin for the last six weeks and his dragon hadn’t had the time to spread his wings in that time too. They are both so exhausted they could hardly sit up straight so they lean against each other in the quieting murmur of people and traffic. 

“Angel” Crowley says with a soft kind of familiar warmth that matches the peace of the moment.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale responds with equal contentment.

“You were right.” the dragon concedes.

“Right about the coronation?” the prince asks with some attempt to rally himself for more work conversation.

“No, angel. You were right about grief. About how to face our lives that might be full of pain and loss.” Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s hand. He slips his fingers between those of his bright human love and squeezes tenderly. It is the first time he has touched Aziraphale in this way since his recovery.

“I am going to live a long time. Longer than you will, angel. And I couldn’t think of that before. I couldn’t bear it. I ignored it. I pushed it away. I will lose you. Again.” There is a hurting little edge to these words that Aziraphale feels stab into his heart.

“Oh Crowley. Don’t.” He struggles to somehow argue against this notion.

“Shhh. It’s ok. I will be ok. I love you Aziraphale. I always will love you. And I will lose you. And I will be ready. I will look for you. In the faces of our people. I will find you in tea shops and in books. I will show you my love even then. I will show you by continuing our work here. Our kingdom will be my jewel. My hoard. My pretty treasure. And if war comes and scatters them to the wind, I will still love and find you. In whatever humans are left. I will not add to the horrors of the world. I swear it.” 

Aziraphale cannot bear another moment of holding his love in limbo. The bright sacred heart of him bursts free and he is holding his dragon close and kissing the fresh wet tears from his cheeks. Crowley’s fine slender fingers are pushing through his hair and his starling whispers soft promises of love against his skin. They had come so far and suffered so much to be here in this moment. 

The flame within the starling had scorched so bright before. His need to hold his soft angel had been a consuming terror, something he could barely contain. A quieter light lives inside of him now. Something subdued by age and grief. A steady precious burn that his love had built in the dark with little hope and a lot of fear. Crowley’s deep respect and hard won trust has anchored something that runs so deep and slow and endless. It is not a grasping greedy thing but something that links his hands with the prince. It walks with him to wish the mason workers and woodworkers a good night. It turns with him in their half built home toward the ridiculously enormous room his dragon corporation requires. He reaches to touch his fingers beneath the tired eyes of his love. “Stay with me?” he asks. 

“Always” that bright angel replies.


	18. Worth It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter we earn the E rating. It is possible to enjoy the fic without this chapter entirely. Mind the tags ;)

The morning breaks as it often does, with a soft hurting little sound that pulls Aziraphale from his sleep. This time he can reach across the distance and comfort his consort. The starling is dreaming something bad. Something terrifying.

They had managed only to quietly undress each other before falling into the bed in sheer exhaustion, hands still reaching to clasp together as they fell asleep.

Aziraphale reaches for his sorcerer love. He tucks his warm soft body behind Crowley's fidgeting tense frame and runs his fingers through the tangle of his scarlet curls. Slowly he relaxes. The tight line of Crowley’s body loosens and his warm beautiful love turns in his arms to face him. He curls in to press his nose against Aziraphale’s chest with a sleepy sound of pleasure.

The prince can feel his consort waking in slow degrees, a hint of morning stubble catching on his chest hair as Crowley nuzzles close. Aziraphale begins to drag slow warm fingertips up and down the arch of his spine and over his hip. This hypnotic gentle touch inspires the softest sigh of pleasure.

The dim blue light of morning is creeping into their room and the lingering chill of night makes the massive nesting pile of bedding a haven of warmth.

Aziraphale slides his foot over Crowley’s calf and lifts his soft thigh over those narrow hips.

"G'mornin angel." Crowley whispers against the patch of skin he is kissing.

Aziraphale answers with a little shiver and his fingertips tighten against the starling's skin.

“Angel, can we stay here for a little while?” Crowley asks while sliding his fingers up to trace the soft imprint that the pillow had left on Aziraphale’s jaw.

“Mmhmm” the prince nods and turns his face to kiss Crowley’s fingertips.

“I missed you. I thought you were dead. I thought I had completely failed you.” the dragon whispers.

“I’m here.” Aziraphale gasps as Crowley nips gently at his angel’s shoulder.

“You smell so good.” the starling groans as the prince presses him back and covers his long lean frame with his own solid weight.

"Wait. Mmmm. Wait." Crowley presses his hands against Aziraphale’s shoulders.

The prince stops rubbing his fingers down the flat plane of his husband's chest. "What's wrong?

"Ah. I'm. A little worried. I hate to mention it. But. I am not always. Stable. You know. With this body." Aziraphale chuckles at that. "Oh you don't say. I hadn't noticed." He says with the most amused half smile on his face. He immediately returns to the task of melting Crowley’s brain by finding the edge of his hipbone with his fingertips and scratching there.

The dragon whines in pleasure and his already interested morning wood jerks and begs for attention. "I don't. I don't want to hurt you." He grits out while twisting the sheets in his fist.

Aziraphale makes the same sound he does when he tastes a honey cake and scoots down to press his lips over one excited patch of skin near the dragon's heart. "Sounds like we will have to practice."

He should not sound so blithely unconcerned.

"I am serious, angel. I could slip control and really hurt you." The worry has actually doused some of the heat inside him and he gazes up at Aziraphale with concern wrinkling his brow.

"Crowley. You won't hurt me. I had my bare hands holding your broken wing in full dragon state without you even knowing me and you didn't hurt me. I'm truly not afraid. If you get all scaley we will just find you some distraction until you are ready to come back. I know you like that back scratcher more than you admit. If you are truly afraid, like I said. We will practice my dear."

The sheer human courage and ridiculous confidence Aziraphale radiates is completely shocking and somehow it isn't. Nobody should ever underestimate this mortal. Everyone had. Always. Soft and anxious and talkative. So clean and proper and pretty. Beneath all of that is a heart of pure steel resolve. The kind of gentle stubbornness that can build kingdoms out of a handful of shacks. Aziraphale’s father had missed the chance on a succession that would have stood the test of time. And he, stupid dragon that he is, thought to lock him up in a tower like some shiny gem. Wasted again. Here he shines brightest. When he is pushing forward, when he is driving the people around him to test their mettle. If there is anyone on the planet he should trust, this man is it. Aziraphale believes he is safe.

“What do you mean, practice?” he finally settles on saying.

The blue eyed grin he gets for that question makes him feel like he just handed Aziraphale the sun. It is followed by the most mischievous look that it could be construed as downright sinister.

“Here is what we are going to do, you gorgeous thing. I am going to touch and kiss and play with you while you keep yourself together as long as you can. When you get close to slipping, tell me and we will stop and start all over again. Yes?”

Crowley just stares at Aziraphale for a second. It is all at once, the most practical approach and also the hottest thing that has ever been suggested right out loud like that. His brain finally reboots long enough for him to nod.

He lasts about thirty seconds the first go round. Aziraphale had pinned his hands to the mattress and made it very clear he was to keep them in place and just focus on holding on to his human corporation. It is a paradox that is immediately made incredibly fucking clear. Holding off the climactic burst of magic and transformation is suddenly a thousand times harder when Aziraphale is telling him to do it. Suddenly his entire body is ringing with the ache to change. Like some itch or tickle somewhere beneath his skin that rises so hot and fast that all the prince has to do is scrape his teeth over his nipple and he is fighting harder than he ever has. He almost shouts in surprise and trembles there beneath his angel and squeezes his eyes shut and can feel a ripple of scales slip down his wrists and ankles. Fuck. Oh fuck.

The bastard smirks. He smirks and flicks those pretty blue eyes up to his gasping husband who finally dares to open his eyes. “Oh I think you will have to do better than that, dear.” He licks his lips and that devilish light dances in his eyes. “Are you ready for more?” he asks when Crowley manages to peel his fingers loose from the sheets again.

“Yup” the dragon manages, while injecting his voice with way more confidence than he actually feels. The attempt to feign nonchalance dies the second he feels those broad soft hands touching his face and hair. His angel mouth pressing a necklace of kisses over his throat. He is a little bit more prepared for the sudden hot rush of pleasure and the warning welling press of magic. Aziraphale is so close. That scent of paper and ink and now doused with the sharper tang of sex. Crowley tries to focus on each single thing in turn to distract himself from the impulse to heave a great gout of superheated magic between his teeth. No. No. Hold it. He must hold it.

Aziraphale chuckles and leans back.

“What?” Crowley asks, only to have his lover sift fingers over the soft downy tuft of feathers that dusts his chest.

Aziraphale laughs and Crowley wryly glares at the offending intrusive little fuckers. “How did that get there?” He asks with the same cool tone he had attempted earlier.

“Mmmm. You tell me, husband. You seem so perfectly calm and cool!” Aziraphale teases and nips his earlobe.

“You are trying to kill me angel. I know it. And you are having way too much fun with this. Do you like being a menace?”

“Oh absolutely. I am touching you however I like and you have to lie there like a good little bird.” Aziraphale looks suspiciously like the cat that got the cream as he makes this announcement and follows it up with a tiny little roll of his hips that nudges the aching weight between his legs.

Crowley groans and tries not to jerk his knees up or sprout scales. The effort it takes is so absurd that he starts laughing at how ridiculous and hot he is. “Fuck.” he bites out and shivers.

“That is the point, yes.” Aziraphale says, way too calmly considering the firestorm he has ignited between his soft thighs. He isn’t showing a shred of mercy or slowing down either. His delicate sweet kitten licks along the edge of Crowley’s jaw are a direct counterpoint to the filthy grind he is inflicting on the poor dragon.

Then Crowley’s arms are shooting up to hold his angel, high desperate little sounds are spilling into those platinum curls and his bare cock is digging wet and tight into the crease of his lover’s thigh. A bright flashpoint of pleasure builds between their hips and he is coming. His entire corporation shuddering in ecstasy. Oh he is never going to live it down. His beautiful love in his arms and he can’t manage to hold it together past a frotting little hump session.

The starling flops back onto the bed with a soft little moan as another twitching pulse of orgasm is curling his toes and hitching his breath. Fuck.

“Well look at you. Clever beautiful thing. You made it. And here I am unscathed and whole. I think you underestimated that body. Really. I don’t know anyone else who would. Look at it. Fuck. You are made for this, Crowley. All that slink and swagger, those pretty eyes showing me everything. This blush against your freckles.” Aziraphale leans back again and takes the dragon’s pale slender hand. Cupping it around his cock, he bites his lip and presses the starling’s fingers around himself. “I’m guessing since you have come, it will be a little bit easier for you.”

Crowley catches his breath and watches the incredible sight of his pretty prince fucking his fist. His angel is right though, his head clears a little bit and he watches the flushed wet tip of Aziraphale’s cock appear and slide back into their fists. The scent of sex rises even hotter and he instinctively tests the air with his tongue. Fuck. He wants a better taste.

Something about the intent way he is eyeing that stiff leaking dick must have telegraphed what he has in mind, because before he can even mention it, the prince is kneecrawling further up and removing his own hand. Aziraphale leans over and retrieves a pile of pillows and props the starling’s head while Crowley nuzzles and licks the soft pouch of fat that rolls into his generous hips. He whines softly when his treat is taken away but immediately remembers the slicked thick head of his angel’s pretty prick. It’s a more than fair trade.  
Aziraphale presses his middle and ring finger between Crowley’s cherry bright lips and strokes his tongue. The dragon drops his jaw and curls it in a long sinuous flexing roll that is certainly not completely human. His blaze gold eyes tip up to watch his prince while gently suckling his fingertips. Then in the most obscene little gesture he opens wide to flash the back of his tongue and the soaked fingers shine there while his drooling tongue lolls invitingly. The prince feels the tip of his cock tingle. Fuck.

Reaching his free hand up to grab a handful of soft red curls, Aziraphale uses his wet hand to feed Crowley his cock.

He takes it so sweetly. His face flushing pink and his lashes falling to hide those eyes. The bunch of his brows indicate how he concentrates on taking every slow inch. Aziraphale pushes into that silk heat until Crowley’s lips seal around the shaft. There. Halfway. He stops. Catches his breath. Oh fuck. Heat. So much heat. His dragon had heated his tongue. A little bit past the temperature of a human mouth. It is just short of actually being uncomfortable. So. Fucking hot. Wet. And then Crowley begins to flick his tongue in wriggling little flutters. That is when Aziraphale blacks out a little bit. Before he can consider his next slow thrust, Crowley has taken his ass into both palms and pulls him in. The dragon kneads his soft skin and tucks his fingertips into the crease of his ass and pulls again. And again. Aziraphale falls forward a bit. Both of his hands reach up to plant into the pillow, pinning Crowley’s hair and head in place.

The starling moans. One long loud throbbing heavy growl that rattles inside some deeper chest. A dragon’s huffing heavy groan and his throat vibrates and opens and he pulls again. Aziraphale sinks balls deep into the thrumming heat of his mouth. So close. He is close to coming and his hips jerk and Crowley doesn’t have to pull any more. Aziraphale is pinning him by the hair and fucking his mouth. Those golden eyes drench with reflexive tears as his slender throat flexes and takes what it is given. His nails dig hard into the prince’s ass and the hot lines of pain shoots a flare of electric heat into his balls and there. There. Right there. Fuck. He is shooting hot jets of come down his throat. A whole stream of incredibly un-royal language is pouring from his mouth as Crowley nurses every drop he can manage to pull in slow heavy sucks. It is finally too much. Overstimulated and wrung out, he pants and drops to Crowley’s side.

The dragon yelps in surprise. And scrambles his arms to catch the prince and lift him a bit out of the way. Wings. Soft grey black on the inner primaries and an oilslick black on the outer with the faintest trim of gold. Starling feathers. The wing easily spanning six feet. Human size starling wings. They both stare at the spill of feathers before they look at each other.

Aziraphale is the first to recover, of course. “Crowley. We are going to be picking feathers out of everything for months.”

The starling doesn’t have the decency to even look the slightest bit apologetic. He simply wraps his angel up in his embrace and grins while blanketing them both with the heavy sweep of his wing. Kissing his temple, he whispers “Worth it.”

_Ah. Hello there. Yes. I am still here. Your faithful narrator. I bet you forgot about me. Well. We are leaving these two to their bright little kingdom. But every fairy tale has to have some point. And I haven’t been mystical or hiding it at all. Loss and grief finds us all, some more than most. Things are tough right now and might get tougher. There are a couple of instincts that might rise up in you. One might be the instinct to find yourself some tower and wash your hands of humanity and say “none of this is my fault”. And the other impulse is to turn into a giant dragon and eat people. Ya know. If you could. Lashing out and paying those fuckers back. For the injustice._   
_Your hurt is valid._   
_Your pain is real._   
_Your anger is justified._   
_But listen, dear beautiful friend, if you love even one single person in this world, then you have a responsibility to them. To protect that beauty. To make them shine and thrive. And we are all connected. To help them the most, you will need to support the communities that they live in. You will need to look for them in the faces of children and in the places they love. To show them you care, you should reach out to the world they were born into and try to make it better. For them. For all of us. It’s never easy to live with grief and with loss. But you can do it. I have left this story here to shine like a little cake in sunlight. Look for some bright angel right there beside you, ready to lead your pretty starling heart back home. Journey well friend. I’ll find you in the tea shop. I’ll see you somewhere in the stacks._


End file.
